


Animus Vox

by PunsandPoses



Series: Drink the Sea [1]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arnold Schwarzenegger - Freeform, BAMF Peter Parker, Does Monty Python Count As A Character?, Don't worry, Fluff and Angst, Hydra Peter Parker, I Meant For Tony To Have A Bigger Role, I planned this out, If you find them all you get a gold star and the title of Good Noodle, Look How That Turned Out, M/M, Multi, Not Beta Read, Post-War, References To Literally Anything, Slow Burn, Smart Wade Wilson, Well His Quotes Anyway, it does now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2019-10-18 23:10:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17590175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunsandPoses/pseuds/PunsandPoses
Summary: Peter Parker was created in a lab with the DNA of two prominent scientists. Put under the tutelage of one Tony Stark at 15, he became Engineer 616, the last artificial child.





	1. Geometer

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, and welcome to this fic I created because the idea grabbed me around the throat and choked the life out of me. I'm 8,000 words in and regret nothing but my own playlist's inadequacy. And my inability to create a good summary for this.
> 
> Title is from the Glitch Mob's song. 
> 
> I'm not completely happy with this beginning, but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯. I did my best. Second chapter should be up in a few days, there are some tweaks I have to do. If y'all have any questions, I will be happy to answer them. Anyway. 
> 
> Enjoy!

_ Animus vox- the voice of the soul _

“616! Report!” Peter’s commanding officer, a man by the name of Scheill and with greasy black hair, shouts at him. 

“All systems are engaged, sir,” Peter tells him, fingering the wrench in his fingers. The small robot on the table behind him whirrs softly. “It should be ready in approximately 8.56 hours.”

“Good,” Scheill says. “513, report!”

Tony looks up from his hologram at Scheill. The number written on his bicep in green catching Peter’s eye for a moment before he looks away, to the task at hand. 

_ Later, _ he tells himself. 

“Almost ready,” Tony informs Scheill, his eyes cool and calculating, though his face is blank. 

“Good,” Scheill says, and then he leaves, boots clacking on the concrete floor. Peter messes absently with the hem of his standard issue white shirt. Tony sighs. 

“Peter, give me the size 8 wrench,” he says, and when Peter hands it to him, smiles faintly before frowning at the number tattooed on Peter’s arm.  _ 616. _

“Tony?” Peter asks. They aren’t friends, exactly, no one was friends within HYDRA. You had only allies. But Peter and Tony were close to an extent, a friendliness that extended beyond the silence they often found themselves in. 

Peter had been sent to Tony at 15, when he had learned everything HYDRA could teach him about engineering. He is Engineer 616, the last  _ artificial _ child HYDRA had conceived before they had shut down the program in order to focus on the rebels plaguing them, as he is constantly reminded. 

Everyone had a purpose under HYDRA, and Peter and Tony’s happened to be creating machines for them. 

“I’m fine,” Tony replies, and his eyes are weary. He doesn’t sleep much anymore, drinking enough coffee to awaken the dead and building, building, building. 

“Okay,” Peter answers. They work in silence, until the guards come and take them to their individual rooms. 

-.-.-

Peter lays on his bed, frowning at the plain white ceiling. The loose cotton sweatpants and shirt he wears seem to chafe uncomfortably on his skin and he tugs at them.

His room is plain, clean. He has a small bookcase with tomes about engineering and a desk with blueprints and a hologram, a chair, and a cot. There are white walls and a concrete floor that’s too cold.

It’s better than what the rebels had. Peter had been told about their predicament, about how they lived like savages in the world above the bunker he resided. 

How they killed each other for food. 

The rebels called themselves the Avengers, and sometimes Peter wondered what they thought they were avenging.

He turns on his cot uncomfortably, wondering about the rebels. He had never been out of the bunker, except for the two occasions he had to be transferred. 

The world above was apparently a wasteland of sorts, people living like savages within the densely forested hills surrounding the bunker. He wouldn't even know where in the world he was if it weren't for the atlas he'd been given at 7 for school. He's in what was once Canada, about seventy miles from the Northern border of the United States. 

History had been a subject he didn’t often learn about, but he didn’t know there was a war between HYDRA and SHIELD, which backed the Avengers, after the latter took over governments and turned countries against HYDRA and its allies. The war had eventually consumed most of the world, and there were rumors of a country in Africa surviving the war. But HYDRA had never found it. 

The bunker was created before the war, and they used solar and wind energy to power it. The generator hadn’t broken in years.

Peter’s parents were apparently some of the Viatoribus, roamers of the countries, living off the land until HYDRA found and recruited them.

He’d never met them, and he’d heard they’d died on a mission. Tony apparently knew them, though he rarely mentioned them.

-.-.-

“616! Get up!” Scheill’s voice awakes Peter from his slumber. He leaps out of bed and faces Scheill, who has a strange look on his face. 

“Yes, sir?” Peter says, blinking the sleep from his eyes and clasping his hands behind his back. 

“You’re needed in Sector 34, move,” Scheill tells him, that peculiar expression still on his face. Peter nods before following Scheill. Two guards, who had been stationed on either side of the doorframe, fall into step behind him. 

“Sir, why are we going to Sector 34?” Peter asks, struggling to keep up with Scheill’s long-legged stride. Peter might be 5’10”, but Scheill was close to 7 feet tall. 

“You are needed there,” Scheill answers tersely. They turned several corners until they are at a steel door. Scheill knocks and pushes it open. 

It’s a lab, filled with beakers and strange formulas. 

“Is this him?” a familiar voice asks, and Bruce Banner comes up to them, a clipboard in his hands and wearing a labcoat stained with spots of varying colors. The number 743 was on his collarbone, exposed by the short V of his shirt. His hair is tousled and greying. 

“Yes,” Scheill says. “Peter Benjamin Parker, Engineer 616.”

“Good,” Bruce answers. Scheill nods and leaves, as do the two guards. He turns to Peter, who watches him blank-faced. 

“I bet you’re wondering why you’re needed here,” Bruce says, and Peter nods. He knows Bruce from a previous project that was trying to merge bio-molecules with machinery, and Bruce had been part of the team sent from Sector 34 to the Engineers. 

“You were part of the group screened for an experiment that we are doing to see the effects of mixing human and animal DNA,” Bruce explains. “Your results were most fitting for what we needed.”

“What kind of animal DNA?” Peter asks. 

“Spiders,” Bruce says.

-.-.-

After a thorough explanation on how they had doused a spider in radioactivity and the experiment would work, Bruce had Peter strapped to a table in a separate room.

“With any luck, you’ll get abilities as a result of the bite,” Bruce had told him, fingers clasped around the clipboard tightly. 

Peter recalls a former experiment, one that Bruce had been the subject of. It was in an attempt to create a serum to make someone superhuman. While he didn’t know the exact results, he did know it failed, and left Bruce... _ changed. _

Bruce gives him a look and takes his leave. Peter’s left alone with his thoughts until the door opens.

“Okay,” Peter says, mostly to himself. Another scientist, a lady with cropped hair and pouty lips, comes forward with the cage containing the spider Peter’s supposed to be bitten by. With sure, gloved fingers, she unlatches the door to the cage. The spider crawls out, black eyes studying Peter and long legs scuttling it forward. 

A flash of fear strikes through Peter, and he tugs at his restraints frantically. 

“Stay calm, Peter,” Bruce says over the intercom, presumably behind the mirror on the wall to Peter’s right. The spider drops down, onto Peter’s stomach. He tenses, then relaxes. The other scientist leaves, cage in hand. 

The spider regards him again before it’s off in a flash, scrambling up Peter’s chest and around his shoulder. It stops at the junction of his neck and shoulder, seemingly making a decision. 

Fangs sink into the back of his neck. Peter thrashes against his restraints as pain courses through his veins. His head slams back against the table he was strapped to. There is a wet crunch as the spider is crushed by his writhing shoulders.

His knuckles go white from the force he used to make a fist, nails biting into his palms. Blood wells up and drips between his fingers, dripping on the ground. Scarlet.

He blacks out. 

-.-.-

“Subject appears to be waking,” someone says. There’s the sound of a pen scratching against paper. “Heartbeat increasing.”

“Get a tissue sample,” another voice answers, cold and professional. A needle pierces his skin and he frowns. Rustling fabric as someone adjusts their shirt, nails scratching against skin. 

The whine of the lights and the fans above, heartbeats in the space around him, he hears it all. 

Peter sinks back into unconsciousness, silence reigning once again. 

-.-.-

He wakes in a cold room, arms and legs strapped down and everything grey. 

“Welcome back,” Bruce says dryly from beside him. “You’ve been asleep for six hours.”

“Wha-” Peter begins before a bout of coughing interrupts him. He twists his neck to look at Bruce, and the back of his neck twinges in pain.

“The experiment was successful,” another person says, stepping up to Peter’s line of sight. Cold eyes regard him, eerily similar to how the spider had looked at him. As if he was prey. Something pings at the base of his skull, like a warning.

“Collin Harpy,” the man introduces himself. “And you, Peter Parker, are our newest agent.”

-.-.-

After he had been fully informed on his new duties as an agent and what that would entail, Peter is taken to his cell and left with a new outfit. 

It’s a lightweight suit made of thin material. It includes a half mask, which Bruce had told him was only for missions. 

He was an agent now. Peter stares at the suit, picking it up. The mark of HYDRA is on the upper sleeve, and he studies it. 

There is a knock at the door, and Peter tenses, wondering who was there. He opens the door, expecting Bruce or another scientist. 

To his surprise, it’s Tony. His eyes are a little brighter, and it looks like his shirt had been freshly washed. 

“Hey, underoos.” Tony hasn’t called him that in years. Peter sets down the suit and throws his arms around the other man. Tony laughs and hugs him back warmly. Peter buries his face in Tony’s shoulder. The other man smells like he always does, motor oil and soap and something that was undeniably  _ Tony _ . 

“How are you here?” Peter asks when they break apart, rubbing at his jaw. Tony smirks in answer. 

“Pulled a few strings,” he replies cryptically, and Peter smiles. They fall into silence, Tony going to sit in the chair and Peter on his cot. 

“So you’re an agent now?” Tony asks, and Peter doesn’t ask how he knows. He wouldn’t get the answer and Tony has a way of finding or figuring things out. 

“Yeah,” Peter puts his chin on his knees.

“I hear that you’re going to get an alias and whatnot,” Tony continues, flapping his hand. “Probably something interesting.”

_ Like the Winter Soldier? _ Peter wants to ask. There were rumors about him, the assassin that was kidnapped by the Avengers and brainwashed into fighting for them. About how he never missed his marks, his metal arm with the circle and star. 

“So what did you get?” Tony inquires, voice carefully blank but with a thin veneer of curiosity, and Peter rouses himself from his thoughts. “What?”

“I said,” Tony enunciates the two words sarcastically, “what abilities did you get?”

“I don’t know, really,” Peter answers, looking down at his own palms. They look the same as they did before the bite, no stronger or different. “I’m hungry, though.”

“I’m being told to make a better suit for you,” Tony nods toward the suit next to him. “That’s a training suit.”

Peter looks at Tony then. There’s a certain weight to his words, a hidden meaning Peter can’t extract or deduct. 

“I’ve gotta go,” Tony says, then gets up. He stops at the door frame. “Stay sane, underoos.”

He’s gone in the next instant, and Peter is left staring at the wall. 

-.-.-

He’s awoken the next morning by an annoyed guard. He rushes around, struggling to get into the training gear. When he’s dressed, the guard, whose number is 387, leads him to Sector 18. Training. 

Bruce is there, along with a tough-looking woman. The guard leaves him with the two, in a room with several targets, guns, and knives. The same ping starts in the back of his skull when the woman looks at him. 

“Hello, Peter,” Bruce greets him. “This is Amanda Callison. She will be your training officer.”

Callison says nothing. Her cool blue eyes survey Peter’s brown coldly, before she opens her mouth. 

“616, are you ready to comply?” she asks abruptly, voice commanding but quiet. Her voice has a particular resonance in the room, and Peter has no idea how to react, except to obey. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he answers, staring directly back at her. His back straightens, feet pulling together, and his chin is up. 

“He’s ready,” she tells Bruce, who readies his pen and clipboard. 

They start with throwing knives. Callison teaches Peter the correct stance, how to grip the knife and throw it properly. The first few tries leave the knives embedded in the wall behind the targets, until he manages to get a knife in the outer circle, then the middle, and finally, the center. When he lands his fifteenth perfect center, Callison nods and Bruce writes something down. 

Peter finds he can hear the wood splintering, the exact instant when the force of a throw launches the blade into the target. He can pinpoint the whistle of the splinters flying through the air. 

“616, throw the knife with all your force,” Callison instructs him. She never uses his name, only his number. 

Peter stands in front of the target, feet apart. He grips the knife and prepares to throw it. 

At Callison’s nod, he throws the knife, using every bit of his strength. The blade goes through the target before shattering when it hits the wall. The handle clatters to the floor to the applause of a hundred splinters and bits of metal. 

Peter turns to look at his companions. Bruce looks impressed, jotting something down on his clipboard. Callison stares at him, before her lip moves just slightly. 

She smiles. 

-.-.-

They keep training for several hours afterward. Peter progresses from knives to other weapons, until Callison makes a nod at the corner of the room, and the door opens. 

Behind it is a blue-eyed blond whose face is familiar. Flash Thompson, 576. Another agent, and Peter’s childhood torment.

“You are going to spar,” Callison tells Peter, her eyes staring directly into his. 

“Yes, ma’am,” Peter replies, and they move to the middle of the room. Flash stretches lazily, shaking out his fists and keeping his stance loose. 

“616, 576, spar!” Callison commands them. 

Flash moves first. His fist moves toward Peter’s face before sharply veering down. The ping is back at the base of his skull, and out of instinct, he dodges, grabbing Flash’s fist and using his other hand to push him back several feet. 

He skids back five feet before stopping, his expression incredulous before it hardens into determination and he’s moving forward again. 

A foot aims for Peter’s knees, and when the ping comes a split second before, he jumps on impulse, using momentum to launch up and land a kick of his own at Flash’s knee. 

Contact. Flash lands on one knee, but he’s up again in a moment. Peter dodges his fist again, spinning around before landing an elbow to the middle of his back. All the air whooshes from Flash’s chest with a heavy “oof!”. He lands on the floor. 

Peter grins, adrenaline rushing through his body. He feels quick, light, almost invincible.  Like he could go forever. When Flash pushes back up, he gives a quick punch to the stomach and kicks out his knees again, so he’s down on the ground as quickly as he got up. 

“616, you have won,” Callison says when Flash doesn’t get back up after a few seconds. “576, go back to your commander.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Flash replies, pushing to his feet and walking out. 

“Well done, 616,” Callison tells Peter. A grin takes over his face. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” he says sincerely. Over in the corner, Bruce scribbles.

-.-.-

Peter continues training for days afterward. On the sixth, he finishes building what he hopes are going to be his primary weapons.

Callison had been skeptical when he’d asked to build himself weapons, but had let him after a bout of bargaining. 

Snapping the two web-shooters on is a breeze, the palm trigger light and flexible. The synthetic liquid inside had taken three days and a lot of chatting with Bruce, but it was done. But he’s hoping it will work the way he wants it to. 

“616, who do you serve?” Callison asks him when he arrives in his training suit and with his web-shooters on his wrists. 

“HYDRA,” Peter answers, and the ghost of a smile is imprinted on her lips. 

“Good,” she says. Bruce steps forward and hands him two gloves, the material on the palm and inside of the fingers thin. 

The obstacle course is ahead. After a nod from Callison, he starts. 

There are several “buildings” on the course, each one as tall as a small house. Peter aims toward one and presses the trigger on his palm with his two middle fingers. He exhales. 

A stream of artificial web connects him to a building and he launches himself toward it, resisting the urge to whoop. Then he’s off, racing through the course in record time. 

“Very good,” Callison tells him when he touches back down in front of her, grinning and panting with exertion. “I’m glad to see that allowing you to build your own weapons has worked, 616.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Peter says, and Bruce smiles. 

-.-.-

The days pass, then the months. Peter gets better, stronger, faster. After the discovery that he could stick to walls and ceilings, his training shifts. 

It changes in other ways too. More rigorous questions about his allegiance to HYDRA. On one day, they strap him into a chair and invade his head, using probes to test him. They find his healing factor and how long it takes to heal. It’s painful, but Peter endures it. 

“743, what is his record?” Callison asks one day after he clears another course. 

“3.23 minutes,” Bruce answers, flipping to a page. 

“His most recent time?”

“2.34 minutes,” Bruce replies in a toneless voice. 

“Congratulations,” Callison says, turning back to Peter. “Your stage of training has been completed.”

Peter grins. “Thank you, ma’am.”


	2. Bad Wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time-skip! Apologies if you wanted Peter's first mission, I had already written this chapter out as the second. I can write out his first mission as a separate one-shot, though. 
> 
> Wade appears in this chapter!

_Two Years Later_

_“Agent 616, come in,”_ Callison barks over the comm. Peter frowns from his perch in a tree, scanning the horizon.

“Agent 616, reporting,” Peter replies, pressing a hand to his ear. “No hostiles found.”

 _“Good,”_ she says. _“Find the building, get in and out.”_

“Roger that,” Peter answers, slips on his half-mask, and drops the ten or so feet to the ground. Landing in a silent crouch, he listens for any sign of movement. Hearing none, he heads in a dead sprint for the building, rising above the treeline.

 _No webs,_ he had been told, so he had to settle for traveling on foot. Peter fingered his half mask absently. Spotting a guard, he spins and launches into a nearby tree, swinging up and onto the branches and flattening himself to one of the larger branches. The guard passes underneath him.

_Engage only when necessary._

He exhales slowly as they pass, and when they’re out of sight, is off like a shot, sprinting between the trees and continually scanning for threats. Only one person spots him, and with a punch to the temple cuts off his yell and knocks him out cold.

Peter stares down at the sandy-haired man by his feet. He has a bow and quiver, and if Peter concentrates, he can hear the comm in his ear crackle as voices come through.

_“Clint? Clint! Can you hear us?”_

_“Is he out?”_

_“Clint, come in!”_

Peter sighs and plucks the comm from ‘Clint’s’ ear, crushing it in his fist. The voices click off abruptly. He continues on his way, dragging the archer off the path before sprinting on.

The building, a tall production featuring a worn _Stark_ insignia, is slate grey and crawling with soldiers. Peter spies a red-haired woman speaking to a tall blonde holding a battered-looking shield with a star in the center about fifty feet from him.

“He’s not answering his comm, and it says it’s offline,” she says to the blond, whose face wears a deep frown.

“Can you get a lock on his last known coordinates?” the blond replies, absently messing with the shield in his hands.

“Yes, but it’ll take a while,” the redhead replies. Peter eyes her. Something about her makes the base of his skull tingle, even just looking at her.

“Alright,” the blond replies, and they walk off.

Peter stares after them before jumping smoothly from the tree.

_Engage only when necessary._

He scans the nearest guard for weaknesses before settling into a loose posture, muscles tense and ready to move. The building ahead is a giant mass, easily twenty or more stories, and well guarded, until you get to the side. There’s a door on the side, currently unguarded. Peter can edge his way around until he can get through.

Callison had warned him of the lack of intel they had on the place, only that it was sort of a base for the ‘Avengers’. _Keep an eye out,_ she’d said. _They have guards patrolling every inch of that forest and around the building._

Peter rolls his shoulders and runs around the perimeter of the clearing, avoiding any guards. When he’s close enough, he launches into a dead sprint, somehow managing not to be seen or heard. Picking the lock on the door, he slips inside.

The base is still the same shade of concrete as the outside, the floor plain and grey. Peter sticks himself to the wall and crawls to a vent cover in the ceiling.

He curses internally. There’s no way he can pry it off without making noise, and no way to secure it without using-

Dammit. He’ll have to use his webs. Listening for footsteps and hearing none, he pries off the vent cover. As expected, it comes off with raucous metallic screeching and whining. Quick as a flash, Peter scrambles up into the vents, putting the cover back in place when he’s inside and securing it with two quick shots of web.

Footsteps come quickly, and Peter looks down to see two guards, holding guns and wearing heavy boots.

“What the hell was that?” the first says, looking wildly around and pointing their gun at anything and everything.

“Probably nothing,” the second replies, but their finger tenses next to the trigger anyway.

They listen for a few moments, falling silent. Peter breathes shallowly. Then they seem to come to a decision and they move away.

Peter exhales and then takes a large inhale. The vents smell like something buttery, sweat, and a little bit of what he assumes is a type of cologne. It’s also vaguely spicy.

He moves quickly, crawling through the vents in a way that could only be described as spider-like. Eventually, he finds the room he’s looking for. Computers line the wall and there are maybe five or so people within. A quick evaluation shows that they’re unarmed. Peter kicks out the cover and drops down.

The ensuing scuffle results in a dislocated shoulder, two broken noses, three elbows to the face, four punches, and the five people out cold. Peter snatches what looks like an ID from one after popping his shoulder back into place with a curse and moves to a computer, which appears to be running a system check.

He stops the check and opens up the database, pulling a flash-drive from a secret pocket on his suit and plugging it in. Actually hacking into the database takes a few tries, and mentally he curses out whoever coded this, because they knew what they were doing. The screen flashes after five tries, and he’s in like Flynn, downloading files on the Avengers, the organization behind them, and on HYDRA. Transferring the files will take a while, and Peter’s always found intelligence missions boring.

**_15 minutes._ **

Peter taps his feet on the floor, listening for footsteps.

**_Thirteen minutes._ **

**_Seven minutes._ **

**_Five minutes._ **

Of course, as the timer hits five, the door swings open to reveal a man in red and black, holding two pistols and aiming them straight at Peter. Because that’s how things run around here.

“This is a stick-up! Raise your hands and calmly surrender!” he shouts, voice like gravel on tar. The mask on his face looks serious, with the white eyes narrowed. Peter cocks an eyebrow at him, face impassive, noting how broad his shoulders are and the width of his biceps. It’s a tad distracting, as are the two katanas strapped to the his back.

“Damn, that was bad,” the man says, scratching at his jaw with the business end of his weapon. “Let’s try that again. I’m either going to kill you or bring you in, because…”

He takes a look at the monitor behind Peter. “Because hacking into our database is not okay, and you’re obviously HYDRA, so whatever.”

Peter just stares at him.

The man stares back.

“You look really cute-” Peter frowns because how can you tell when half his face is covered by a mask? “-but you’re really rooting for the wrong team.”

Peter is done with listening to him talk by the time the sentence ends, so he rushes the man, and when the back of his neck tingles, flips onto the ceiling to avoid the shots. (“ _What the fuck?!”_ the other yells.) Kicking the guns out of the man’s hands, he wraps his thighs around the other’s neck and uses his momentum to slam him down onto his back and cut off his air.

It takes a few moments, Peter’s thighs getting clawed by the unfortunately strong grip of his captive. When he does slump further into the ground, going limp, Peter leaps off him delicately. He has to drag the man into the room and kick the door shut, because unconscious bodies are often a gigantic no-no when you’re being stealthy.  

**_Two minutes._ **

**_One minute._ **

The red and black suited man stirs as the clock starts a countdown to zero. Peter cocks a hip against a monitor and watches him. If need be, he can take him out again, but for now, he’s content to watch him mutter to himself as he collects his thoughts.

“So you’re still here?” the man says, looking at Peter with a look of interest. No, not interest, suspicion, like waiting on your files to download is something supremely weird. To be fair though, Peter should probably be out of here, but they’re just staring at each other. Waiting for the other to make a move.

**_12\. 11. 10. 9. 8. 7. 6. 5. 4. 3. 2. 1._ **

At the timer’s beep, Peter snatches the flash-drive, pockets it, and goes for the man first, running forward and spinning to kick his knees out. The tingle comes back and he avoids the shot aimed at his head by yet another pistol produced from God-knows-where. He kicks out the gun but has to dodge a knife that swings out with unerring precision for his throat.

The man uses his dodge to get away from his grip and stand on his feet, something like a grin stretching under his mask. Peter raises another brow when the other stashes the knife somewhere and draws out the dual katanas.

“Just realized we never introduced ourselves,” the man says, and Peter can tell that he’s got a huge smirk under his mask. “The name’s Deadpool, sweetie.”

Peter furrows his brow and tries to figure out why he’s been told the other’s moniker, _because obviously it’s a moniker_. However cool the name might be, they’re in the middle of a fight, so Peter kicks himself out of his momentary daze. Deadpool uses his confusion as an opportunity to strike, slicing with one katana. Peter hits the ground to dodge, rolling to the wall and righting himself quickly.

“You’re too fucking fast,” Deadpool scowls, “like some sort of creepy-ass spider. The kind that you see one minute and then scuttles off like some bat out of hell.”

Peter scowls in return, resisting the strong urge to flip the other off. Deadpool raises the swords again.

“What, don’t like the comparison, sweetheart?” Deadpool asks, all sugary-sweet. Peter really does flip him off this time, raising his right hand and extending his middle finger. The other roars with laughter before launching himself at Peter, who takes his hand back and evades the right sword well before the other gashes his thigh.

The cut smarts immediately, and Peter can tell it’s a deep one. Deadpool eyes the red staining his sword with what looks like a reverent expression. And how the hell do his expressions translate through the mask so well. Witchcraft.

 _What sorcery is this?_ Peter screams internally.

“Mm, glad you bleed red,” Deadpool drawls, tracing his finger through the liquid and eyeing the way it drips down. “Lobsters bleed blue, did you know? Insects bleed yellow. Don’t know if you were some kind of animal or not, you kind of scuttle everywhere.”

He doesn’t _scuttle_. Peter promptly calls himself out on this by climbing up the wall backwards and keeping his eyes on Deadpool the entire time.

“HA! He _is_ a spider!” Deadpool yells, but it seems to be mostly himself, his attention somewhere to his upper right. “Told you!”

Peter eyes the ceiling vent that he had originally come from, wondering how he’s going to get there with Deadpool in the way. It’s about 10 feet away, but Deadpool’s standing right under it. Peter exhales slowly. He’s going to have to use his webs.

 _Motherfucker,_ he mentally curses Deadpool and springs into action.

Shooting a web at the vent, he launches himself toward it, shooting another at Deadpool. It lands on his face, and when Deadpool reaches up to pull it away, Peter lands a kick to his chest, sending him flying.

He grabs the vent cover, jumps and pulls himself up into the vents, secures the cover with a couple shots of web, and he’s racing through the vents. He’s by the exit in 5, kicking down the vent cover (thankfully still secured by web when he reaches it) and slipping out of the building.

Peter sprints back to base, avoiding guards, mind whirling from his encounter with Deadpool.

-.-.-

Turns out he’d given HYDRA a treasure trove of information on the Avengers and SHIELD. He’s privy to only a few tidbits, because he’s just an agent. But they do hand him a stack of papers on the Avengers and their abilities. Curious, Peter looks for the information on Deadpool. Or should he say Wade Wilson.

Peter can only find a few bits about his past, something about former Special Ops, and his abilities are vague. The files mention his katanas and his skill as an assassin, how he can apparently heal from any injury. Peter himself has a healing factor, but his can hardly be called one next to Deadpool’s. Bullet wounds are healed in seconds, but if he receives a shot to the head, it can take up to an hour for him to revive.

It’s all fascinating, really. Peter finds his eyes caught on a particular part of the information.

_Diagnosed with cancer at 23 and sought help with the organization known as Weapon X. Was captive for 5 years, during which a latent mutation was found and triggered._

Peter frowns. Something about it doesn’t jive right with him, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

He finds out the redhead's name. Natasha Romanova. The shield carrying blond is Steve Rogers, once known as Captain America.

It’s three days of more training before he gets another mission. Callison had told him that it was for intelligence. Again.

Peter suits up in the evening, and when he’s deployed and in the woods again, the cold air seeps through his suit. The night air numbs his face, even through the half mask. The bark of the tree he’s in scrapes at him through his gloves.

Part of him wants to curse SHIELD for existing, another HYDRA for sending him out at night in October. But he is thankful that he can use his webs if necessary, and he has the comforting weight of his knife in a hidden pocket.

 _“Get in, get out,”_ Callison reminds him through the comm before it clicks off. Peter sighs, drops down, and sets off for SHIELD’s building again.

During his quick debriefing, Callison had warned him that SHIELD had upped their security from the previous break-in (courtesy of Peter and Deadpool, respectively).

_Expect anything._

Sprinting through the trees is easy. But the amount of guards he dodges is almost comical. Within the space of two minutes, he encounters five, recognising that one as the blond he had taken out, quiver still on his back.

“I don’t see anything,” the blond says to his comm, pressing fingers to his ear and looking around him. Peter struggles to remember what his name is.

 _“Be wary,_ ” a masculine voice says, crackling through the comm. _“Be careful, Clint. He took out Deadpool without breaking a sweat, according to him. He might be...altered._ ”

“I’ll be fine,” Clint replies through the comm, glancing to his left. Peter takes the opportunity to move forward, into a different tree, staring down at the blond when a twig cracks beneath his weight. He sucks in a breath. Clint appears not to hear.

It’s five excruciating minutes before the blond moves away. Peter moves quickly after that, pulse racing, even if there is really no danger. But adrenaline moves through his veins, spiking, kicking his senses up a few notches.

The building is in sight in fifteen. And Peter isn’t surprised to see it swarming with soldiers. He hasn’t really done much worse, but the amount is worrying. He spies Romanova and Rogers. They both look tired and determined at the same time.

Peter might have to wait until it’s totally dark, but at that moment (almost like they’re giving him a giant _fuck you_ ), lights flicker on and the courtyard is bathed in bright light. Peter flips the whole thing off from the darkness of his tree.

He settles in to wait. The minutes pass like syrup. Taking his knife from the hidden pocket in his suit, he flicks it open. Closed. Open. Closed. Rhythmic and soothing. In his head, he recites the elements in the periodic table. _Fe, Iron. Ag, Gold. Au, Silver. He, Helium. U, Uranium._

Two and a half hours later, he finds a chink in their armor. Or two. They rotate guards every two hours and there is a spot of darkness over on the eastern side. The roof only has two guards on it, and he can climb up and incapacitate them.

Peter moves quickly after that. Sliding between the trees and slipping into shadows, he moves to the east, avoiding the guards. Leaping into a tree, he settles in to wait another hour and a half.

Fortunately for his boredom, two guards are beneath him and talking. One is a brunette with a side-swept pixie and the other a blond with green eyes and a mole near the corner of her mouth. Peter can read their badges. The former is Agent Liov, the latter Agent Lacole.

Lacole yawns and presses a gloved hand to her mouth. “Who’re we looking for again?”

Instantly, her companion gives her a withering glare. “We’re looking for the HYDRA agent, dumbass.”

“So? I doubt he’s gonna be right here, above us-” at that, Peter snorts under his breath at the irony “-so I don’t get what the big deal is. HYDRA isn’t gonna sweep us off our feet at any moment.”

“They got enough intel to bring all of us down,” Liov tells her, giving her another one of those deadly glares. Peter can feel the force of her glare, even ten feet above them. She’d make a good HYDRA agent, if she was on the right side.

The two begin a conversation about a fellow soldier they both hate, someone named Ackles. It’s entertaining enough that the time slips by. When the two hours are up, the duo shift the rifles resting in their palms, ready to switch out.

Peter takes his chance when they begin moving back to the building, Lacole complaining about how she’s missed breakfast twice in the last week because she accidentally slept in, earning a hard punch to the shoulder.

He moves to the piece of darkness and begins to climb, sticking to the concrete and scrambling up. The building is taller than he first expected, and it’s only when he’s two floors up that he looks down. Nothing seems out of the ordinary.

Reaching the roof, he swings up, receiving a welcome party of two rifles pointed at his head. Sighing, he kicks out and sweeps their feet from under them. Webbing them up, he knocks them out with punches for good measure. He moves to a trapdoor and crouches, listening. There’s no one, no heartbeats, breaths, or footsteps.

He opens the door and drops down into a white hallway. Scanning his surroundings, he finds a camera on the left. He crawls up the wall slightly and crushes it in his fist before it has the opportunity to turn toward him.

There’s another vent cover above him, and he uses his knife to unscrew it before crawling in and securing it with webs once he’s in the vents.

It smells the same as it did when he was first in here. The same notes of cologne, spice, sweat and something buttery. Peter suspects someone is often up here, but for what reason, he can only guess.

He remembers the map, how he was supposed to find the computer mainframe and get more info. Peter suspects HYDRA is planning something big, even if he doesn’t mention it. Two intelligence missions in a week is rare.

He clambers through the vents toward the computer room silently, avoiding any vent covers and guards. At one point, he’s above what looks like a lounge, five or so guards sprawled out in varying states of dress, one man is shirtless. He moves through the area quickly. When he does get to the computer room, he surveys the area with a sigh.

A guard at every corner of the room and at the door. Even the three techies are armed, Peter can see the tazers on their belts. This is going to be difficult. But he doesn’t have time to hesitate. Quickly, he formulates a plan and then kicks down the vent cover, landing soundlessly. Five guns are instantly pointed at him, and the closest techie holds out a taser like a pistol. The tingle at the base of his skull sings.

“Get on the ground,” the guard to his left growls, stepping forward. He’s a blond with furious-looking blue eyes, and his mouth is twisted into a scowl. Peter lowers himself to the ground, and when the guards step forward, shoots out a web, enveloping an ankle. He hops up and swings the webbed guard around, knocking down everyone in a ten-foot vicinity. He webs the pile of groaning bodies together and faces the two remaining personnel, who hold up their tasers and slide into battle stances.

Peter rushes them first, dodging the electricity jabbed at him, and punches the first one in the chin with enough force to knock him out. The other backs up, eyes calculating. She gives him another look and rushes to a comm in her ear. He webs her before she can get to it.

Sticking the flash-drive in a monitor, he moves through the system, downloading more files. The fact that SHIELD puts so much into files proves why they’re so easy to get info from.

He’s about halfway through his task when the door bursts open to reveal Deadpool, katanas out and ready. Peter raises his eyebrows after spinning around to face him. Does he have a sixth sense for this stuff?

“Nice to see you again, Scuttle,” Wilson greets him and Peter scowls through the mask, brows furrowing. “Don’t you get the reference? _The Little Mermaid_?”

Peter gives him a blank stare and resolves to keep calling him Deadpool. Wilson makes him seem more human, and Peter doesn’t want to think of him like that. Deadpool shrugs. “Guess not. _Under the sea, under the sea, darling it’s better down where it’s wetter, take it from me!_ ”

He has the audacity to wink at the end and Peter glares again.

“Not much for singing, I see, Spidey,” Deadpool gives one of those looks, like Peter’s lack of knowledge on inane songs is a tragedy. Peter webs his leg and pulls, yanking Deadpool off his feet and towards him. It’s a little hard, but Peter wants revenge for the nicknames.

There’s a yelp, the katanas are dropped in surprise, and Deadpool raises his forearms to block the elbow Peter sends towards the center of his chest. The bones fracture under the force of his blow.

“Jesus, take a load off, will ya?” Deadpool says, swinging out a leg and hopping up, shaking out his arms. Peter jumps to avoid the leg and the tingle at the base of his skull alerts him to the handgun pointed at his forehead. Peter slowly and deliberately raises his arms to show surrender. But Deadpool doesn’t hesitate or relax.

He’s learning.

A smile forms beneath the mask, slow and full of promise. In a flash, Peter puts his arms behind his back on the floor and kicks out with both feet, hitting Deadpool straight in the chest. The latter flies back, sternum popping and cracking from the force, and slams into the wall.

“God almighty,” Deadpool groans, slumping against the wall. “You broke my spine, asshole.”

Peter can see cracks in the concrete wall from where Deadpool had hit. He grins and snatches the flash-drive from the monitor, pocketing. He’s got enough intel to satisfy his superiors.

Shooting a web, he pulls himself up into the vents, snatching the cover on the way. He webs it shut and sets off toward the roof.

He manages to escape easily, clambering down and preparing to sprint into the forest. He’s stopped by lights pinning him to his place, guns prepared and pointing at him.

“Get on the ground,” a commanding voice says, deep and full of confidence. “Or we’ll shoot.”

Peter raises his arms for the third time that evening, kneels, and stares through the bright light to see the broad-shouldered blond, holding a shield, and the redhead.

“You wanna go ahead?” he sees her mutter to the blond.

“I don’t trust him,” the blond replies, just as quiet, holding up the shield. Peter hears footsteps behind him and a hand holding a knife curves easily around his shoulder to his throat.

“Fancy seeing you here, Spidey,” Deadpool says from behind him, elbow bracketing his arm and pistol pressed to his temple. Evidently, he’d healed up.

“Deadpool, be careful,” Rogers says, holding his shield like he’s going to throw it. The red-head’s feet slide apart, pressing the balls of her feet firmly into the ground.

Peter’s almost stuck. Almost. He could break out of Deadpool’s grip, spin around him, and use him like a shield if they started firing. But he allows himself to be pulled up and pressed forward by the shifting of the pistol to the back of his head and the rumble of Deadpool telling him to move.

The guards lower their guns a fraction as they walk forward. Peter tenses, feeling energy coil up in his veins, ready to sprint and use webs if necessary. The glare of the lights fades until he’s around five feet from Rogers and Romanova. He focuses on the patch on Rogers that reads his name.

Rogers stands like a soldier, it’s written into his bearing. Peter hopes he fights like one, instead of improvising like Peter did. Like he could tell Deadpool did, even if they didn’t really come to blows. Peter could rely on his superior speed and reflexes then.

“Get him to the cells,” Rogers commands, and instantly, five guards peel off from the ranks and flank Deadpool and Peter. Peter raises an eyebrow, because it seems like a bit much.

Peter allows himself to be led away, the insistent pressure of Deadpool’s knife ever present at his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad Wings- The Glitch Mob


	3. Saints

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a mess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not entirely satisfied with this (it's shorter than I'd like), but whatever. Thanks for the comments, they always brighten my day. :D

They’d managed to find where he stashed his knife, but not the flash-drive (secret pockets do be secret), and he’s left alone, cuffed to a chair. The guards did take his web shooters, to their credit. The half-mask had been taken off by Deadpool, who’d immediately squealed when he saw his full face and promptly skipped out the door.

He flexes his hands in the cuffs. Steel, breakable if he can summon enough force. He needs to bide his time.

It’s maybe thirty minutes or so before Deadpool enters in all his red and black glory. If it could be called glory. Something hisses in the vents, like a canister of gas.

“Listen up, Spidey, because I’m gonna lay it to you straight,” Deadpool tells him, dragging over a chair from the corner and sitting in it backwards. “You either tell us what you’re doing breaking in here and maybe they won’t let me use alternative ways to get information out of you. I’m very persuasive, I’m told.”

“I’m trembling in my boots,” Peter tells him, rolling his eyes. Deadpool grins. 

“Spunky, I like that,” Deadpool tells him.

“Thanks, jackass,” Peter rolls his eyes again. He flexes his wrists again. Deadpool notices and something like a smirk crosses his face. 

“If you think you can break out of those, be my guest,” he drawls. “This room was built to withstand almost anything. You can't do anything.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. 

“Okay, listen, Bambi,” Deadpool says. “You're not doing yourself  _ any _ favors right now. You can talk, maybe we won't kill you. Dunno about that, because HYDRA is  _ no bueno _ . But talk, and no bad things will happen, capisce?”

“What are you gonna do?” Peter goads him. Deadpool raises an eyebrow of his own and is up in a flash, holding a knife to the soft skin of his throat. The blade presses slightly, enough to slice a thin line. 

“A lot more than you’d expect.”

“Original,” Peter replies. Deadpool grins underneath the mask and seems to make a decision as the tension between them frays. He opens his mouth just as another man walks in. 

“Deadpool, get back,” Rogers commands. The shield is absent, though the red, white, and blue tactical gear remains. “I told you, we’re not torturing him.”

“Aw,” Deadpool pouts, but he gets back anyway. 

“Did you join HYDRA willingly?” Rogers asks him. Peter evaluates the question, turning it over in his head, considering. The two men in front of him stare, expectant.

“No,” he answers after a moment. He figures it will be better if he answers the unimportant questions, the ones that won’t give up anything. 

“Were you kidnapped? Tortured? Bribed?” Rogers inquires, like this is a regular occurrence.

“I was artificially created,” Peter tells him tonelessly, inclining his head. Rogers’ eyes widen and he exhales slowly. “Using the DNA of two scientists, HYDRA genetically engineered me.”

“Why?”

“They needed an engineer,” Peter shrugs. “I’m hardly the first one they made.”

“There are more of you?” Deadpool pushes past Rogers, eyes narrowed.

“Yes,” Peter snaps. “I was the last artificial child created before the program shut down 24 years ago. Engineer 616.”

Damn, he didn’t mean to give up his former status. It’s like something pushed it out of him.

“Engineer 616?” Rogers’ mouth makes an aborted movement, like he’s thinking and it’s a habit. “You are the 616th engineer?”

“You were the one who made that gun that almost took Widow out,” Deadpool connects the dots in his head. Peter stares straight back. It’s not really that hard to figure out. The number of the Engineer who created a weapon was on it, along with the symbol of HYDRA, so they could find whoever made the weapon. In case they needed to have it upgraded. 

“Perhaps,” Peter stares at him, eyes narrowed. His head is fuzzy and his mouth seems like it’s on autopilot.

“I-42-616,” Deadpool recites, still giving him a look like he burned a village and danced on the burnt bones of the inhabitants afterwards. 

“Continuing,” Rogers coughs pointedly. “Why are you on a mission if you’re an engineer?”

“Because I was part of an experiment. The number is just a designation for my superiors to refer to me as,” Peter answers. The 616 on his arm seems to burn and his bicep twitches. His mouth feels cotton-like. 

“An experiment?” Rogers asks rhetorically. “Deadpool, get his blood to the lab. See what his DNA is like.”

Shit. Peter struggles with the cuffs.

“Roger that!” Deadpool snaps up, his spine straightening as he cracks off a salute sarcastically. He moves out of the room, leaving Peter alone with Rogers. 

“Tell me about your designation,” Rogers says.

“My immediate superior was Tony Stark, Engineer 513. But I was transferred to Sector 34 under Bruce Banner, 743,” Peter internally panics as his mouth runs and gives Rogers information. “They had experimented with a spider and had it bite me. I got…”

He pauses, fighting against the flood of words coming out of his mouth, but it’s too powerful. The words get dragged out anyway. “I got enhanced and put under the command of Amanda Callison. I trained for a year, until my first mission.”

“And what was that?” Rogers asks, mouth a thin line. 

“Capture of Evan Jackson.”

“Who was he?”

“Viatorem that was formerly a scientist. Captured in what was formerly Wisconsin. Did important work regarding animal and human genetics.”

“Was he killed?”

“No,” Peter’s brow creases as the corners of his mouth turn down. “I don’t kill.”

“Ever?” Rogers asks, tone even, though a hint of something like surprise flashes on his face. Peter shakes his head, which gets even fuzzier.

“Why were you on a mission now?” Rogers inquires. 

“More intel on SHIELD and the Avengers. They want to launch an attack soon, a big one, enough to bring the rebels down. So they can capture Viatoribus without interference and convert them to the ways of HYDRA.”

“Have your commanders told you anything about the attack?” Rogers presses. 

Peter shakes his head. “No, only that I need to prepare.”

Rogers gives a nod and stands up. He exits the room, entering a moment later with two guards. The guards uncuff him from the chair and stand him up before putting both his arms behind his back and re-cuffing him. 

“Take him to a cell,” Rogers commands. The guards nod in unison and open the door, one hand on each of Peter’s arms. He finds that he knows that he could break out of their grip, but he doesn’t particularly want to. 

They lead him to a small grey room, populated by a cot. The cold from the floor pierces through the thin soles of his shoes. The guards uncuff him and leave, closing the door behind them. He’s alone. 

The first thing Peter does is evaluate his surroundings. The walls are slate grey and cinder block, covered in bumps. The cot is plain white, with a blanket tucked into the edges and a thin pillow. There’s nothing else. 

There is nothing left to do but wait, and he sits on the cot, twining his fingers together.

So he does, reciting off the elements to keep his boredom at bay.  _ Li, Lithium. Be, Beryllium, B, Boron. C, Carbon.  _

He’s at lutetium before the door slides open, revealing Deadpool. Instantly, Peter rolls his eyes. 

“Evening,” Deadpool tips an imaginary hat and steps in, door sliding smoothly shut behind him. Peter says nothing in reply, continuing to thorium. 

“You don’t say much, do you?” Deadpool leans against the wall, folding his arms across his chest and studying Peter, who stares back, expressionless. “Kind of like Barnes when he came in.”

“Just because you never shut up doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t know how,” Peter tells him, lifting an eyebrow. 

“It’s part of my charm,” Deadpool lifts an eyebrow of his own. 

“Some would call it an irritant,” Peter replies. 

“Some don’t have any taste,” Deadpool counters. Peter throws his hands in the air. How do you  _ win _ with someone like this?! Answer: you don’t.

“Why are you here?” Peter sighs.

“Should we answer?” Deadpool peers at a point somewhere parallel to his shoulder. He shrugs. “Fine.”

“You’re intriguing,” Deadpool tells him, shrugging again. “Dammit, I know what that word is, shut up!”

“I-” Peter is at a loss for words. 

“Not you, them,” Deadpool waves off his concern, unfolding his arms and pointing at thin air. “Fight me, asshat, I’ll Shia LaBeouf your ass.”

“What?” Peter was lost.

“You don’t know-” Deadpool ceased his nonsensical argument to stare at him, wide-eyed in a look of shock. “Hold on, how do you not know Praise God for Beef?!”

“No,” Peter tells him flatly. Deadpool makes a face beneath the mask. 

“Damn, have you never watched  _ any _ good movies?”

“What are movies?” Peter asks, wrinkling his nose in confusion. His guard is lowered, because the base of his skull isn’t tingling, and Deadpool is not even doing anything besides giving him intense confusion. And the fact that his guard  _ is _ lowered at all proves that Peter is going crazy. Maybe. Goddammit, Deadpool’s crazy is contagious.

“ _ Oh my god, _ ” Deadpool slaps his hands to his cheeks and drops his jaw, eyes widening comically. “The author really likes to make you ignorant, don’t they?”

“The  _ who _ ?!” 

“Nevermind,” Deadpool replies before he leaves suddenly, muttering something like “their world-building sucks.”

Somehow, Deadpool’s boot trips up his other and he nearly goes flying. 

“Dammit!” he curses, shaking a fist at the ceiling. “You win this round!”

And he’s gone. 

-.-.-

Peter gets peace for exactly three elements (proactinium, uranium, and neptunium) before Deadpool returns, a screen in hand. “What’re you-”

“Now, you might be a criminal and on the wrong side and all that, but I’ll be damned if I let such ignorance pass by without even trying to fix it. Let Mama educate you on the finer parts of life,” Deadpool waves away his concern and pulls up something on the screen. 

“I don’t need to know about whatever movies are-” Peter protests, but a finger presses to his lips, effectively shutting him up. 

“Shh,” Deadpool tells him.

“ _ Why are you doing this?! _ ” Peter demands, slightly hysterical. “I am your  _ prisoner _ .”

“Because the author is a romantic sap-” and with that, Deadpool accidentally slams a finger into the screen harshly, elicting a harsh series of curses. “Alright, alright! And because letting you go without seeing the wonder that is Monty Python is practically a crime.”

“Wha-”

“We’re basically endgame, honey buns, now shut up and watch,” Deadpool flicks something on the screen and smirks in satisfaction when words start to scroll across the screen. Peter digests this statement with confusion and resignation. Despite himself, something like amusement flickers through him. Deadpool is pretty funny, in an offbeat, strange sort of way. 

So Peter watches his first movie with Deadpool, the two of them sitting on the cot and leaning against the wall, peering at the screen on their knees. It actually is good, the banter between the characters amusing, and Peter finds a faint smile crosses his face at the coconuts used to imitate horses. 

It’s an hour and a half well spent, even if it is with an enemy in a hostile territory. And Peter actually lets out a chuckle at the Knights of Ni. 

“ _ We want, _ ” the Knight declares on-screen, voice high and imperial, “ _ a shrubbery! _ ”

Deadpool mouths along with the words following. When it’s over, Deadpool stretches languidly. “Pretty good, eh? Dammit, there’s my Canadian side.”

“It was,” Peter agrees, feeling surprisingly comfortable around the red and black suited man. Something about him is disarming, in a very strange sort of way. Which is peculiar, considering how they’re on the opposite sides of a war. 

“Why are you with HYDRA?” Deadpool asks suddenly, Peter instantly tensing at the question, relaxation gone.

“Because they’re all I’ve ever known,” Peter replies, fingers absently running over his wrist. 

“Didn’t you ever want something different? Better?” Deadpool looks calculating. Cool. “You seem like a decent kid.”

“I’m twenty-five, and no. I was never shown any other options,” Peter informs him, folding his arms over his chest.

“Huh,” Deadpool says. “So you weren’t lying when you said you were artificially created.”

“Genetically engineered and then produced from STEM cells, if that’s what you’re asking,” Peter cocks a brow and stands, looking intently.

“So you never had parents? An aunt?” Something like humor crosses his face. “An uncle who got shot?”

“I have no family,” Peter says tonelessly. Tony doesn’t really count, seeing as they are merely allies with more familiarity than most. Some days, he could even call Tony  _ fond _ of him, but their greater purpose overshadowed any petty emotion.

“Huh,” Deadpool opens his mouth like he wants to say something more. He closes it and makes a face, like he really wants to say more but it would be better if he didn’t. Peter’s surprised, he’s not the type to hold his comments back. 

“Good night,” Deadpool tells him, door sliding open. Peter says nothing in return. 

Despite himself, Peter is tired, and the moment he lies down in his cot, he passes out. 

-.-.-

He wakes up pissed. 

Gas. They had him spill secrets through gas. Peter knows what they used, a synthetic form of hormones and compounds that made someone more relaxed, open. Normally, Peter wouldn’t be affected by it, but apparently they upped the concentration. 

Peter wants to  _ throttle _ everyone. Including Deadpool. Especially Deadpool. He could use his knife and make  _ sure _ Deadpool  _ stayed _ dead. Before he can formulate a plan to do so, the door slides open to reveal Rogers and Deadpool, flanked by two guards. 

“Morning, sunshine,” Deadpool greets him, cheerful. Peter glowers.

“You,” he growls. 

“Me,” the other agrees, happy as a clam. Rogers pushes forward. 

“We just want to talk,” he says, hands up and palms facing Peter, who doesn’t relax from the fighting stance he’s been in. If anything, his fists get tighter. 

“Why? So you can drug me again?” Peter snarls, glaring at the duo in the doorway.

“That was an unconventional way of getting useful information,” another, sterner voice says from behind the guards. A man with grey hair and a face that shows intellect pushes forward, wearing a suit and badge. 

“Calm down, Phil-edelphia, you’re just going to irritate him more,” Deadpool says, frowning behind the mask. The man turns and gives him a flat stare. 

“You do realize we are in the midst of a  _ war _ ?” he asks, folding his arms over his chest. Deadpool sighs. The man continues. “He’s also a potential asset. You said he was enhanced? He could be the key to defeating HYDRA, once and for all.”

“Or he could be a mistake,” Rogers cuts in, his own arms folded. “He was  _ created _ by them, how could he change sides?”

Peter watches this exchange with a deep scowl. 

“You do know he’s standing right in front of you?” he snaps, drawing their attention back on him. 

“Where are my manners?” the unfamiliar man asks, a mocking warmth in his tone. “Phil Coulson, agent of SHIELD. And you, 616, are going to be our newest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saints - Echos


	4. Still Counting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Banter, with a hint of salt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol sorry I'm late, I did not sleep and am in the midst of a family crisis.

You’re making a mistake,” Rogers says, arms folded. Peter rolls his eyes at all of them. 

“If you haven’t forgotten,” Coulson begins, tone sharp, “HYDRA is responsible for the deaths of thousands, not to mention the global war-”

“We don’t need a history lesson,” Deadpool cuts in. “We have him right in front of us. What do you want him to do?”

“As of right now?” Coulson asks. “I want you two to spar. 616 and Deadpool.”

“Fine,” Peter stalks forward, noting how only Deadpool and Coulson take an involuntary step back. Rogers, if it’s possible, gets even taller, tensing, fists curling. He smirks.  

“I’ll spar with Deadpool-” Coulson’s eyes get a glint of something he can’t name. “-and in exchange I want information on the war, basic history.” 

He was given a mission on intel. Might as well make the most of it. 

“He’s smart,” Coulson notes.  

“He can also hear you,” Peter barely restrains himself from snarling.

“And he’s dangerous,” Rogers interjects. Peter shrugs. True. Rogers continues with a barely not condescending, “You’re making a mistake.” 

“You already pointed that out, Cap-ulet,” Deadpool says. “But most likely true. Barnes isn’t the same as him.”

“James Buchanan Barnes?” Peter asks incredulously. He can’t help it. “The Winter Soldier?”

“Yes,” Rogers admits, a note of curiosity in his hard tone.

“How? He was captured by SHIELD on a mission and brainwashed,” Peter continues, mind calculating. “SHIELD keeps him docile in a cell, and HYDRA wants to get him back because he is their greatest achievement, the ultimate soldier.”

He’s basically reciting what he was told, has been told about the Soldier. 

“I don’t know what they told you about Bucky, but it isn’t true,” Rogers folds his arms, the picture of stubbornness.  

“That he was a former American soldier captured by the Soviets as an experiment, then acquired by HYDRA? That he lost his arm falling off a cliff and had it replaced by a silver one with a red circle with a star?” Peter arches an eyebrow.

“That’s all true,” Rogers admits. 

“Then what’s not?” Peter presses.  

“I hate to break this up,” Coulson says, stepping forward, “but we have a deal to contend with before you can share notes about Barnes’ origins.”

Deadpool is uncharacteristably silent, and has been. Peter stares at him, evaluating. Coulson snaps, bringing in two guards.  

“Cuff him and take him to the training room,” he orders, precise. The two do so, Peter letting them do so only on the promise that he’ll get information, info that HYDRA will never tell him. So maybe he’s in it for himself, just a little. Sue him.  

And they march, the merry little sextet, to a semi-warm gym with mats on the ground. Coulson nods at the guards, who unlock the cuffs and take up positions by the door. Peter watches them coolly, reflexively rubbing his wrists.

“Weapons or no weapons?” Deadpool asks rhetorically, the white eyes of his mask narrowed. There’s not really any need for them, and if Peter was given his, he’d be out in five minutes. They all know this. 

“Goddammit, I know! Don’t remind me,” Deadpool snarls at a point level with his right shoulder. Peter raises an eyebrow and Rogers and Coulson don’t even react, apparently used to him. 

“I think that air particle is extremely threatening,” Peter says, pointing a finger at a speck in the area where Deadpool is looking.  

“Don’t you start,” Deadpool wags a finger at him. “I’m about to stick a katana in them and I can do it to you too.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Peter scoffs. Like Deadpool could give him anything more than a minor cut. Even the slice he’d been given on the thigh had healed in half an hour. 

“Is that a bet?” Deadpool raises an eyebrow.  

“I don’t need to bet. I’d kick your ass any day. I’ve done it twice already.” 

“Those didn’t count, sweetie.” 

“Don’t count, my ass. What were they then?”

“Practice, obvs.”

“Bullshit.” 

“Enough,” Rogers cuts in before the two can escalate further into what would most likely be a roast-fest.  

“But Captain, that was just the foreplay!” Deadpool wails, clutching at his chest. Peter resists the urge to slam a fist into his nose. Or two. 

“We’re here only to fulfil a deal, Deadpool,” Rogers reminds him sharply. Deadpool withers like a flower in autumn, arms crossing over his chest.  

“You’re no fun.”

Peter rolls his eyes at the man and turns to Coulson, who raises his brows. 

“So? Are we here to insult each other?” No answer.

“My sweet little crocodile rock,” Deadpool begins, coming up behind him, standing only a foot away, “you have no idea what insults I can come up with. More than you can handle.”

“Bring it, you assless chap,” Peter tells him, spinning to face him. Deadpool makes a noise somewhere between a squeal and a groan, before suddenly attempting to sweep Peter’s legs out from under him. Peter, his senses alert, jumps, punching at his jaw. 

Deadpool evades him, grabbing his bicep and twisting him to grab at the other. Peter, unable to jump, has his knees taken out. He hits the ground, Deadpool’s thighs digging into his back in an attempt to pin him. Heavy, but not too much.

He tenses, potential energy coiling. He bucks, hard, kinetic energy flowing through him. Deadpool flies backward, hitting the ground with a thud and a low groan.

Peter is on top of him almost as soon as he lands, flipping him over and pinning the other to the ground. But Deadpool reaches around, grabs his leg, and whips him off. The two of them are on their feet in an instant.  

“That all you got?” Peter goads, and a smile breaks out underneath Deadpool’s mask. Peter’s feeling oddly free, like just being able to talk whilst fighting is unlocking something in his chest. Vaguely, he’s aware of Rogers and Coulson in the background, calculating, but he doesn’t care.  

“Hell, no,” Deadpool replies, and Peter moves first again. Feinting a right cross, he uses the distraction to flick his foot around Deadpool’s leg, tripping him up. He doesn’t expect the knife to be pulled from its sheath.  

“A-ha!” Deadpool cackles, whilst Peter stops short, planning.  

“Deadpool….” Rogers’ voice is a clear-cut warning. 

“It’s not even a 10 incher, unlike what I-” 

“If you’re going to say ‘got’,” Peter interrupts, “that’s what someone with a 2 incher would say.” 

“You little shit,” Deadpool stares at him. “I show you the international treasure that is Monty Python and this is how you repay me?! With poorly disguised dick jokes?” 

Peter just grins at him, eyes bright and alive. Deadpool stops in his tracks, staring, and Peter drops the smile after a moment.  

“Oh my god,” Deadpool whispers. “Did you see that? Am I hallucinating?” 

“Nevermind,” Peter says, sobering his face. “And yes, most likely.”

“Fuck off,” Deadpool waves at him dismissively.  

“Rude.” 

“It’s only rude when unnecessary.” 

“That wasn’t necessary.” 

“Yes, it was.” 

“Gentlemen!”

“What?!” They chorus together, glaring at each other. Peter has one foot forward, like he’s about to punch Deadpool, and the other is pointing the knife at Peter’s chest accusingly. 

Coulson gets between them, pushing them both back a couple feet. He looks somewhat ruffled, which Peter would be secretly gleeful about if there wasn’t an asshole right in front of him whose ass he needed to beat. 

“I’ve seen enough,” Coulson motions to the guards, who come forward and re-cuff him. Deadpool doesn’t sheath the knife, only holding it in his hand while he frowns.

“Now, for the information you requested,” Coulson says, like they’re merely conducting a business deal. Which, in a way, they are. Deadpool sheathes the knife when Rogers sends him a sharp look, muttering something Peter can’t catch. 

And Coulson leads Peter and the two guards to what looks like an interrogation room, this one with a table and two chairs. The guards push Peter down into a chair, and Coulson takes the opposite. A nod and the two guards are gone, closing the door behind them. 

“What do you want to know?”

“When did the war begin?” Peter asks. HYDRA is very vague about it, only describing their “great victories”. 

“Around 2005, HYDRA began a careful infiltration of the world’s governments. They did not succeed with two. The United States and Wakanda. Wakanda wasn’t considered important enough, as it was a country of farmers and without any natural resources that were considered valuable. The US, on the other hand, was the home base of SHIELD, and as such, we took out or captured any HYDRA agents we found.” Coulson folds his hands before continuing. His voice is emotionless, like this is nothing more than a routine debriefing. 

“In 2015, a nuclear disarmament was signed in the UN. All but thirteen nuclear bombs were destroyed. The thirteen were stolen by HYDRA. In 2016, HYDRA acted, assassinating many world leaders and taking over countries. The war lasted for ten years, with the thirteen bombs being used on 8 major cities across the world. New York, Los Angeles, London, Tokyo, Delhi, Shanghai, Seoul, and Paris.” A note of sorrow.

“Are the countries still running?” Peter asks.  

“No,” Coulson answers. “The take-over was so complete that when HYDRA left a country, it was in shambles, without any government at all. And the US fell apart after New York and Los Angeles were destroyed.” 

“Then how did SHIELD survive?” Peter furrows his brow, thinking. 

“We have multiple bases,” Coulson says shortly. “SHIELD is—”

He stopped, continued, “Was equipped to deal with disasters.”

“Why do you fight against HYDRA?” Peter asks, because curiosity overtakes him. “They just want to remake the world, make it better.”

He’s almost repeating, word for word, what he has been told since the beginning, since he was created. 

“HYDRA killed thousands, destroyed homes and families. They supported a government and a man who prosecuted a race and killed 6 million of them. They are nothing more than killers and the very scum of this earth.” 

“That’s not true. Evan Jackson was being held by SHIELD, kept captive because of his knowledge in genetics. I freed him from SHIELD!” Peter protests.  

“We kept Jackson safe from HYDRA,” Coulson clarifies, his hands a steeple on the table. “Were you told why HYDRA needed him?”

“No,” Peter admits.  

“Evan Jackson was a pioneer in the field of genetics, yes, and he was also part of a team working on cellular regeneration and various elements. To create a serum.” 

“Super soldiers.” Peter stares at the table. “Like Steven Rogers.”

“You’re smart.”

“I was made to be.” It’s a short statement. Because it’s true. 

“I suppose you were. Your blood-work came back,” Coulson says. 

Peter braces himself. 

“You rather intrigued scientists.” A breath. Coulson leans forward. “The tests said you were not entirely human.”

“I imagine.”

“Your DNA says you’re human, but also spider. Why is that?” 

“What does it matter to you?” Peter folds his arms across his chest, leaning back. “I was enhanced. Nothing more.” 

“I evaluated your fighting style,” Coulson says conversationally. “You’re exceedingly flexible, have a lot of strength and agility. You threw Deadpool like it was nothing.”

“So?”  

“Deadpool weighs over 200 pounds. You’re maybe 130, 140. You can throw your own body weight and more, an incredibly difficult feat. My guess is that your ‘enhancement’—” he puts finger quotes around the word. “—gave you abilities, probably relating to the spider DNA.” 

Damn. Coulson is smart. Too smart.  

“What are you?” he asks. Peter scowls.  

“An experiment.” 

-.-.-

Peter’s led back into his cell, unceremoniously being cuffed and un-cuffed. The guards push him forward into the cell and step back, letting the door slide shut in front of them. Peter looks up from where he’s been staring and rubbing at his wrists to see familiar red and black. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Peter scoffs. Deadpool strides forward, more than a little predatory. 

“Unfortunately, no.”  

“Why are you here? Unless you like to irritate every agent that comes through,” Peter retorts, annoyed.  

“I told you why I’m here. That and the author has to have a romantic subplot,” Deadpool stops, seemingly waiting. Then he continues, nodding. “Ha! They agree!” 

“I don’t care. Go away.” 

“Nah,” Deadpool sits on the cot, swinging his legs. “You’re more interesting than watching Cap moon over Barnes because they’re not attached at the hip.” 

“Whatever,” Peter moves past him, leaning against the back wall. 

“What if I can make it worth your while?” Deadpool produces a tablet from nowhere (likely his ass, but Peter doesn’t want to know) and waves it around like a surrender flag in the midst of battle. Peter can see Monty Python on screen. Waiting. For him.

Goddammit, Peter loves those Knights of Ni. They make the entire movie. 

“Move the fuck over,” he says, shoving Deadpool aside and snatching the tablet before sitting down. He folds his legs beneath him, leaning against the concrete.  

The credits start, and Peter pretends he doesn’t see the smirk passing over Deadpool’s face. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still Counting - Volbeat


	5. The Birds Are Singing At Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I excel at making meh chapters before getting to ones I want to write. Also, disclaimer: I know nothing about Canada (which is where this story takes place, ironic I know) other than Vancouver, Winnipeg, Quebec and Ontario, and the fact that people speak English and French. And bears (the animals, not the men).

I’m changing it up,” Deadpool announces, plopping onto the cot. “I’ve seen enough of Monty Python for the next month. I present to you: The Princess Bride.”

Peter has slowly become used to Deadpool’s presence. He hasn’t seen Coulson or Rogers for two days, and staring at walls while thinking got boring after about 45 minutes. So he welcomes the distraction, even if it was just men running around with coconuts and very tall Knights.

“The what?” Peter asks.

“The Princess Bride, Spidey,” Deadpool gasps. “It’s on the level—actually, it’s above, nevermind—of The Goonies and Indiana Jones in terms of cult classics, not that Satan had anything to do with it.”

“Whatever,” Peter says, but he sits on the cot anyway, because Monty Python is worth their weight in gold and by god, if The Princess Bride is as good, then so be it. Deadpool cues up the tablet and sits next to Peter (entirely too close), but whatever. Peter appreciates the warmth because his cell is cold. That’s it.

The first few moments of the film are punctuated by Peter’s “This looks nothing like a movie with a princess or a bride.”

“Shut it and watch,” Deadpool knocks his shoulder against Peter’s. Peter slams back purely out of spite. Deadpool jumps. “Ow! You fucker.”

He glares at Peter. “Alright, author, whom I know is sitting on their couch eating pear cubes out of a cup as they write this, where is this romance we were promised? The tags might say slow-burn but I know you’re a sap!”

“What the hell…” Peter trails off, staring at Deadpool, who continues. “I’d pop right into the next chapter if I could, but no, you have me in a scene!”

“Shut it, I’m trying to watch,” Peter tells Deadpool, nudging him with his elbow. He stares at the screen, and Deadpool snaps out of whatever funk he’s in. They settle down to watch the movie.

And by god, Peter is entertained. The Inigo Montoya lines were solid gold. Platinum. Diamond. Whatever they were, they were instantly solidified in Peter’s mind as the perfect pieces of language they were.

“Inconceivable!” Peter repeats inside his head, smiling softly, when the movie has ended and Deadpool has already left.

He slips into sleep easily.

-.-.-

“We’re going on a trip,” Deadpool announces the next morning, barging through the door. Peter looks up from where he was rubbing at his wrists (force of habit).

“A trip?” Peter asks, mock-incredulous. He’s tired. And he wants to sort through his dream.

“Yep. Author insists and I’m bored AF, so let’s go, Romeo.”

“How about no?” Peter says, exclusively to be a jerk.

“How about you get some sun on your pale ass?” Deadpool suggests. Peter isn’t that pale....is he? “Even if that ass is finer than the Hope diamond.”

“Uh—” Peter says, very articulated. He’s a master of English.

“Shh, my little Snicker bar,” Deadpool presses a finger to Peter’s lips, hastily removing it when Peter snaps at it. “Hey! Now, in order for us to be able to do this, you need to be handcuffed.”

“Lovely,” Peter replies.

“I think the term you’re looking for is kinky, but since you haven’t experimented with bondage yet, I’ll let it slide,” Deadpool produces a pair of handcuffs from his belt (he does it with the ease of practice and apparently, he’s a magician). “Also, you’ll get shot on sight in that get-up, so you need to change.”

“Into what?” Peter asks, but it’s needless. Deadpool is already handing him a pair of blue, thick pants, a long-sleeve shirt, and a black jacket. Two shoes are by his feet, along with socks. “Nevermind.”

“Chop, chop! Which will happen to me if we get caught, so we’re going a special route,” Deadpool tells him.

“I need underwear,” Peter informs him, throwing the clothes onto the cot and crossing his arms. He’s going along with this exclusively to see the sun and maybe to stretch his limbs.

“I knew I forgot something,” Deadpool exclaims. “Be back in a sec.”

And he’s gone. Peter goes back to fiddling with his wrists, sitting on the cot. It’s five minutes before Deadpool reappears, striding through the doorway and tossing a black pair of boxers at Peter.

“Let’s go, lesbians, let’s go!”

“Whatever,” Peter says, stripping out of his suit and pulling on the boxers after Deadpool turns away. He closes his eyes and stretches, relishing the feel of air against his bare skin. A choked gasp comes from a few feet away and he cracks an eye open to see Deadpool eyeing him appreciatively.

“Thank you, author,” Deadpool murmurs. “I take back what I said earlier. You are the best.”

“Shut it,” Peter says, his face hot for some reason, momentary relaxation dissipating into the cool air. He pulls on the pants and shirt, frowning at the feel of the denim against his skin. The soft grey of the shirt is soothing, oddly enough. The jacket, socks, and shoes are on, and he’s ready to go.

“Skinny jeans would be better,” Deadpool mutters to himself. “Next time.”

“Alright, handcuff time!” he says. Peter rolls his eyes and holds out his wrists. In a flash, he’s cuffed and ready to go.

“What about my suit?” he asks Deadpool. The flash drive is in there, and he can’t exactly leave it behind.

“Jesus, can’t you leave it behind?”

“No.”

“Fine,” Deadpool’s face makes a series of motions that probably mean he’s rolling his eyes. He picks it up and shoves it into his belt, grumbling beneath his breath. (Magic pockets!!!) “Jesus Christ. Now, onward!”

They move through the door, guards absent from the hallway, and Deadpool’s hand lands heavy on Peter’s shoulder. He’s led through a series of hallways and twists and turns that keep Peter entertained trying to remember them all. Then they’re in front of a door and Deadpool spins to his front.

“Try to escape and I’ll put a bullet in your skull,” Deadpool tells him cheerfully. Then he’s behind again and Peter’s stepping forward into sunlight.

-.-.-

The woods they’re moving through is unfamiliar. Instead of the usual conifers and oaks, there are broad elms and maples, branches twining before extending into the sky. The occasional pine breaks the monotony, needles stretching through space, branches brushing against each other. Ivy winds around the trunks of trees.

They’re following a thin trail pressed into the dirt over the years, barely two feet wide. Peter trips over his feet twice. He’s not used to moving through the forest without going through and using the trees.

They reach a meadow, surrounded by a ring of towering paper birches. Their branches entangle, and bushes cover their roots. It’s dark beyond the meadow.

“She’ll be here right about now,” Deadpool says just as a woman steps between the trees.

The Viatorem has long black hair entangled with leaves, and piercing brown eyes. Her clothes, a military grade green jacket, camisole, torn pants, and heavy boots, look worn but well cared for. Peter eyes the dagger on her hip, the backpack on her shoulders, and the rifle in her hands with apprehension.

“¿Quién es?” she snaps, looking at Peter with more than a little suspicion.

“El amigo. Cálmate, Sofía.” Deadpool replies, staring straight back at her. “¿Tienes lo que necesito?”

“¡Chale!” she rolls her eyes. “Movimiento manchado cerca de José.”

“¿Realmente vio algo o estaba borracho?” Deadpool raises an eyebrow. “El hombre ama su tequila.”

“Lo juró, dijo que estaba sobrio.” she answers. “Confío en su palabra.”

“Si insiste,” Deadpool nods. “¿Qué quieres?”

“Depende. ¿Está en la mesa?” she looks meaningfully at Peter, something like a twinkle in her eye. He shrinks back.

“No, inténtalo de nuevo,” Deadpool tells her. To Peter’s surprise, she laughs, a hoarse chuckle that seems to rumble in the air and linger when it’s over.

“Quiero lo usual,” she sobers up, smile dropping and mood serious again. Deadpool nods and pulls a package from a pouch on his belt (damn magician). She takes it.

“Hasta luego, ‘Pool.”

She disappears into the trees, vanishing like she was never there. Peter watches the area she went with expectation she might pop out again.

“She liked you,” Deadpool says after the silence has become unbearable.

“Did she now?” Peter quips back. They fall silent again, which is strange, because Deadpool can fill a space with words faster than Peter with his webs. A question lingers at the tip of his tongue and he releases it. “Who was she?”

“Sofia? She’s a messenger that I pay to get info from. She’s got a whole network, set it up almost as soon as the Canadian government collapsed. Knew she would need it,” Deadpool chuckles, sounding almost impressed. “She’s smart. Was in uni.”

“Was?” Peter asks, curious because he can’t help it.

“She was an engineering major, got into a good school, which was surprising, considering she came across the borders at 16 and learned English after a year.”

Peter waits for her story. Deadpool doesn’t disappoint.

“She’s full-blooded Mexican, family came to Canada in 2009. They weren’t in any of the major cities, but they were still affected. Anyone who was foreign was suspicious when the war started. Sofia was at university in Vancouver. She flew back immediately, but travel is more than a little slow and the airports were jacked with people trying to get to their families. She couldn’t get back for a few weeks. Her family went missing around that time.

“She speaks only Spanish now so she remembers the language and can greet her family when she finds them. The package I gave her? Files on her parents’ last whereabouts, everything SHIELD has on her family. She’s always looking for them. Has been for the last two decades.”

And on that cheery note, the story ends.

“What does she think of HYDRA?” Peter asks, though he partially knows the answer.

“That rifle in her hands wasn’t for hunting,” Deadpool says partially-playfully, his voice laced with the faintest hint of steel through the layer of joking. “Whenever she comes across a HYDRA agent, she kills them. No questions asked.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think?” Deadpool scoffs, turning to Peter and piercing him with his gaze. “She knows who took her family, who made all of this—” He waves around at anything and everything, indicating the whole fucked-up world they’re stuck in until something gives, cracks beneath the pressure. “—happen. In her eyes, they have no redemption.”

Peter doesn’t ask any more. He gets it. Strangely enough, things are falling into place, half-formed questions getting answers. He’s shifting, he realizes, and he can’t change it. There’s a heaviness in the gaze Deadpool holds him with, and Peter figures out why he was brought here, why he was taken to see Sofia.

It’s because Deadpool, ever observant, whip-smart and sarcastically calculating, figured him out. Over the course of many a movie and their banter, he’s figured him out.

Peter should probably stop being surprised at the things Deadpool can do. Walking contradictions become almost predictable. Most of the time, but Peter suspects that Deadpool is not one that fits into the ‘most’ category.

-.-.-

The walk back is punctuated by Deadpool’s chattering.

“One time I tried to get up with the birds, they almost pecked my eyes out—can you believe it? Was fucking rude, but they were pigeons and that was back in NYC, where every man, woman, and child is an asshole. Which reminds me of the times I took care of such assholes, though not the kids, because killing kids is just messed up—”

He stops, thinking. “I know, right? That one lost his balls and his head! Literally! The way he screamed was awesome too, he deserved it, the perverted fuck.”

“Who are you talking about?” Peter inquires.

“Mason Dunnaway, he liked to kill kids and molest their bodies. I was hired to take care of him by the mother of one of his victims, because the law couldn’t take care of him. He was a senator’s son. So I killed him the same way he killed the kids, by strangling him, but not until I’d taken his balls. Cut off his head right before he went unconscious, though.”

Deadpool gasps and continues talking to thin air.

“Reminds me of that time in Morocco—you remember, White? Yeah, she was flex-i-ble! Almost wore me out and I never get worn out! God, I loved her. Yes, she wasn’t exactly perfect, and we were good torture buddies. Shame she tried to use my techniques on me because she was a firecracker! You remember when we set off that firecracker on the man’s dick? Yeah, yeah, I know I tried to swallow that Roman Candle but that was one time, so shut up!”

“I don’t want to ask,” Peter sighs to himself as Deadpool continues on his very, very non-linear tangent. Sine, meet Syntax Error. And this is his mental joke now, bad calculator ones.

“Ha! I told you! Snakes do not come out in October! I know it’s October, Jesus Christ, we have a calendar on our tablet. It says today is October 23. Besides, we’re in Quebec. Quebec. Land of mosquitoes and Canadian French. No, we can’t speak that. I dunno why we can’t, faulty writing if you ask me, I am Canadian. No, the author of this particular fanfiction is not to blame. Hey, look, we can see the base!”

They had, indeed, travelled back to the SHIELD base. Deadpool continues chattering to thin air as they move through the maze of hallways back to Peter’s cell. (“I cannot believe they killed her in the sequel, it’s practically a crime against humanity! Ha, humantitty. See what I did there? Fuck you, that was clever.”)

With a “Hasta la vista, baby!”  and a click of handcuffs, Peter is alone.

HYDRA is becoming something different in his mind. It’s almost like a shift in character, because in the beginning, HYDRA was all he knew. Everything revolved around them. Around the purpose that was seemingly unreachable, because Peter would likely never see it.

They were everything. The reason he lived and breathed. A perfect facade. A wall that was inpenetrable. Honest, dependable.

How could you go against the entity that created you?

The curtain drops, and Peter starts to understand.

He realizes he doesn’t want to work for HYDRA anymore. He doesn’t want to work for anyone.

But what he is going to do now, he doesn’t know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of the conversation in Spanish (S being Sofia and DP being Deadpool, obviously):  
> S: Who's he?  
> DP: A friend. Calm down Sofia.  
> DP: Do you have what I need?  
> S: (Mexican slang, roughly translates to "Are you kidding me?" or "Give me a break!")  
> S: Movement spotted near Jose's.  
> DP: Did he really see anything or was he drunk?  
> DP:The man loves his tequila.  
> S: He swore on it, said he was sober.  
> S: I trust his word.  
> DP: If you insist.  
> DP: What do you want?  
> S: Depends. Is he on the table?  
> DP: No, try again.  
> S: I want the usual.  
> S: See you later, 'Pool.


	6. On My Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, I did not mean to leave this fic alone for so long. That was my bad. Anyway, hope you enjoy, and please drop me a comment below!

“You know,” Deadpool says casually, leaning against the wall, “you’re pretty obvious.”

Peter stares at the wall, turning his thoughts over in his head. He moves, startled, twisting to look at the other. “Huh?”

“You haven’t made that face in a while, the one where you look like you’re going to murder me and escape via crawling up the wall like you’re an actual spider.”

“What?”

“Nevermind,” Deadpool waves away his question. “The important thing is that you are _really, really_ bad at disguising your emotions. You’re like a chicken that imprints on people.”

“A _what_?!”

“Bad analogy, sorry,” Deadpool says. “That wasn’t my fault, blame the author. But anyway—”

“Get to the point,” Peter sighs and crosses his arms.

“My _point_ , which you would have heard if you’d _listened_ , is that you are incredibly obvious and not at all secretive and it is _so_ obvious that you have become disillusioned and now hate HYDRA.”

“How the hell do you know that?” Peter glares. Was he that obvious? He couldn’t have been _that_ obvious. Is he that obvious?!

“You aren’t actually that obvious, but I can tell,” Deadpool’s mask moves like he’s grinning.

“Mmmhmm,” Peter says.

“Now, my real question is, what are you gonna do about it?”

“What?”

“What are you gonna do about it?”

Peter stops, thinking. He knows what Deadpool means, but he really isn’t sure what the answer is. Then it comes to him, and a slow smile crosses his face.

“That’s hella creepy,” Deadpool says, and Peter grins wider.

-.-.-

“For the record, I have no idea how you convinced me to do this, but I’m going along with it,” Deadpool says as they make their way to the HYDRA compound where Tony and Bruce are. “My ass is going to get scorched by Cap’s _I’m Disappointed In You_ Look (trademark), and it’s going to be all your fault.”

“Shut it,” Peter snaps, throwing a hand over his companion’s mouth. The warmth of Deadpool seeps through the leather and Peter’s thin glove, so that his hand is warm. Then something like moisture comes through and he snatches his hand away.

“What the hell?!” Peter exclaims, wiping his hand on Deadpool’s arm. “How did you do that?!”

“Magic, baby,” Deadpool purrs.

“I’m seriously going to break your neck at some point,” Peter says.

“Everyone kills me at some point, some more than other,” Deadpool replies flippantly, his hand inching toward his pistol casually. The base of Peter’s skull remains un-tingled, so he stays semi-relaxed. Nearby, a twig snaps, the source of the sound hidden by a dark grove of trees.

“Must be your winning personality,” Peter jumps, hooking his hands around a branch and swinging up. He crouches on a branch. Wordlessly, he holds his hand down to Deadpool, who lifts his arm and grabs it. Smoothly, Peter hauls him up and they wait for the source of the sound, hidden in branches.

A deer trots into view, ears up and nose dilating. Peter exhales. Hearing the noise, it bounds off.

“You really are a spider,” Deadpool mutters, bumping his shoulder into Peter’s. Startled, Peter slams back, nearly sending Deadpool toppling before sending out a hand and catching him.

“Jesus Christ!” Deadpool curses at him. “Deine Mutter ist eine Hacke.”

“What?”

“Nevermind,” Deadpool scans the treeline. “It’s clear.”

They drop down, Peter silently, Deadpool snapping twigs. Peter punches him, scowling.

“Ow!” Deadpool yelps. “Damn, do you eat your Wheaties? Or perhaps the entire damn aisle?”

“What? You know what? Nevermind. Shut it.”

The middle of where Deadpool’s mouth would be on his mask sticks out, and Peter figures Deadpool had stuck out his tongue. He rolls his eyes.

“Do you have a plan?” Deadpool asks as they walked on. Peter scowls silently. He could move much faster if he didn’t have _someone_ with him.

“Yes. Now hold still,” Peter says. Deadpool stops, staring at him.

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to carry you,” he answers, exasperated. “You’re too slow.”

“I am not—” Deadpool yelps as Peter picks him up easily, swinging him around to his back and leaving the other man to wrap his limbs (frantically) around him and hold on. He starts sprinting.

“You. Are. An. Asshole,” Deadpool says breathlessly. “Christ, I’m the _spider-monkey_. I am _not_ the spider-monkey. I am obviously the one who initiates the spider-monkey-ing, not the actual spider-monkey.”

“Shut it,” Peter swings up into a tree briefly, scanning for people.

“ _Entire aisle of Wheaties!_ ” Deadpool sings sarcastically under his breath.

And they were off again. When the HYDRA compound was within view, Peter moves into a tall oak, shrugs off the man on his back, and turned back to him.

“So, here’s the plan.”

“That is so cliche.”

“Shut up and listen.”

-.-.-

The small device clatters to the ground before two guards. They lower their guns, confused, exchanging glances. A small, scratchy tune begins to play.

_Tonight, I'm gonna have myself a real good time_

_I feel alive and the world I'll turn it inside out, yeah_

_And floating around in ecstasy_

_So don't stop me now, don't stop me_

One picked it up, examining it. The song continued _._

_'Cause I'm having a good time, having a good time_

Suddenly, a blur of red and black punches through the grate above them, slamming down upon them. In a clatter, the two are knocked to the ground, groaning. The device continues playing.

_I'm a shooting star, leaping through the sky_

_Like a tiger defying the laws of gravity_

More guards come running down the hall, alerted by the ruckus in the hall. Deadpool straightens, pulling a pistol smoothly from his holster. Firing at the crowd, he sings along, albeit extremely out of tune.

“ _I'm a racing car, passing by like Lady Godiva! I'm gonna go, go, go—there’s no stopping me!_ ”

The guards raise their guns and fire. Holes appear in his suit, though he pays no attention to them. He pulls the trigger and a hole appears in the forehead of the closest guard. Blood and grey matter spray behind them, splattering the people behind.

“ _I’m burning through the sky, yeah_!” A twist of the arm, a neck is snapped. _“Two hundred degrees, that’s why they call me Mr. Fahrenheit!”_

Peter slips through the vents, using the distraction below to keep going. “ _I'm traveling at the speed of light! I wanna make a supersonic man out of you!_ ”

Deadpool points at a random guard whilst shooting another. His hips shimmy, moving to the rolling beat. The white walls are soon turning scarlet, dripping.

Peter searches for Tony, scanning labs and hallways. The gunshots echo loudly, but the song and Deadpool’s accompaniment soon fade. Peter stops for a second, waiting.

Tony is supposed to be in Sector 33. Bruce in Sector 34.

He clambers through into Sector 33, trying to remember the layout, where Tony’s lab is. Two turns to the left, three to the right.

He’s right above him. Can almost touch him.

Peter hesitates. The mask is constricting on his face. Tony looks tired, even more than usual. There’s a screwdriver in his palm, and he’s tinkering with what looks like a facial cover.

Peter rips off his half-mask hastily and holds it, breathing. Then, decisively, he sets it to the side and kicks down, dislodging the grate. The metal clatters to the floor as Tony whirls, staring, screwdriver held in his hand like a weapon.

“Peter?” Tony asks.

“Tony?” Peter says in reply.

Then they’re hugging, a good strong one, where it’s almost on the wrong side of tight but the pressure is so good.

“Where have you been, kid? I’ve been worried sick,” Tony pulls back and holds him at arm's length, looking at him intensely.

“I can’t talk now,” Peter says, “we’ve gotta go.”

“Where? God, kid, hold on a second—”

“No time,” Peter says, slipping his mask back on. Tony rolls his eyes and picks up the mask.

“Slow your roll, kid, I have things to do,” he snorts, picking up a flash-drive and pocketing it. He moves to a screen and pulls up a keyboard. He slips in the flash-drive.

“No time,” Peter protests.

“You’ve already said that,” Tony replies. “But really, I have things to do.”

“So do I,” Peter says, shifting back on his heels and moving his weight back to the balls of his feet. He continues, fidgeting all the while. They don’t have much time, and Deadpool’s only a distraction for so long. (Ironic.) “Like _getting out of here._ ”

“Aaaaaand, done!” Tony taps a few buttons and pockets the clear square, smirking. “Cleared all my weapon plans and downloaded all of them onto the flash-drive. Don’t want that going into their hands.”

“Oh,” Peter says lamely.

“Yeah, _oh,_ ” Tony rolls his eyes again. He’s been doing it a _lot_. “I’m not a dumbass—”

“Usually,” Peter interrupts, agreeing. Tony smacks his shoulder lightly. “Hey.”

“You said something about having to go?”

“Yeah, now hold on,” Peter says, making his fingers into a cradle. Tony steps on it, and he hefts the older man up into the vents. Peter follows a second later, slipping on his mask and putting the half-mask again. He leads the way through the vents, looking for Sector 34.

Finding the way through to Sector 34 is a pain in the ass, the hallways having enough twists and turns to screw around with Peter’s head. But eventually, he finds the room where Bruce is. Motioning for Tony to stay in the vents, he drops, keeping the mask on.

Bruce is typing at a square, sitting at a table covered in beakers. He looks tired, black circles beneath his eyes. He jumps a foot in his seat when Peter drops down, eyes wide.

“What the-” he starts, but the base of Peter’s skull tingles, and he flips away to avoid gunshots at his back from the guards stationed at the door. Bruce drops down to dodge the shots.

Peter’s eyes narrow. Shooting out web, he flings the guns from the guards’ hands. Dodging a knife one has produced, he blocks a stab motion with his forearm. Moving his other elbow in a sharp uppercut, it slams into into the guard’s chin, knocking them unconscious.  They fall, and the tingle of forewarning prompts him to avoid the baton aimed for his skull.

Kicking out his feet, Peter slams his fist into the guard’s face in the same motion, breaking his nose. The guard falls, the baton bouncing away from his hand.

Silence reigns. Peter rips the mask from his face, panting, as Bruce hesitantly peeks over the table.

“Peter?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Peter replies. “We gotta go.”

Thankfully, Bruce accepts it without complaint, stepping onto Peter’s entangled fingers and pulling himself up into the vents when he’s lifted.

Peter slips the mask back onto his face and hops up. He leads Bruce and Tony through until he finds Deadpool, who is in a fight with Callison.

She has a gun and what looks like a machete. Deadpool’s already lost about three fingers, blood soaking into his suit and gloves from all his wounds.

Nimbly, he steps to the side to avoid the swipe Callison aims for him, firing off a shot. She ducks at the last second, and the bullet whizzes harmlessly over her shoulder.

Strangely enough, Deadpool is silent during all of this, his brow narrowed in concentration.

Callison feints with her machete, and when Deadpool blocks it, she fires off a shot. The bullet embeds itself in the flesh of his shoulder.

“Shit!” Deadpool's arm spazzes out, and the gun in his hand falls from his limp fingers.

Callison smirks, and Peter takes the moment to drop down from the vents.

“616!” she exclaims, her grip going tighter on her gun. Deadpool, behind Peter, shoots. Her surprise makes her sluggish, and Callison gets clipped on the shoulder.

“I see,” she drawls. Something like understanding darkens her eyes. And she slides into an easy stance.

Peter waits for her to move. What he doesn't expect is a shout of:

“страстное желание!”

Something in him snaps, and he feels his resolve crack. She smirks, seeing his face slacken.

“ржавые! Семнадцать.рассвет!”

Peter feels his spine straighten and his feet pull together. There's a curious fog taking over his head, his mind.

“Плита! Девять! Мягкосердечны!”

Callison looks victorious. There's a smugness in her features. She takes a deep breath.

“Возвращение домой! Один! Грузовой вагон.”

Peter's head goes blank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On My Side - Demon Hunter


	7. Decimator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lotta angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo! I updated fairly quickly! I'm proud of myself! Anyway, high angst content, and please drop me a comment! :D

She had watched him for two years. Had trained him in the art of subterfuge and making oneself into a weapon. 

And now, her subject, 616, is perfected.

"616!" The man in question stands at attention. She smirks, complete in her triumph.

"Take them out."

There is no acknowledgement, no sense that he even recognizes the order. A tendril of doubt curls into her chest. But then he moves, quick and easy, a step towards Deadpool. 

And she knows. Is content to observe.

She slips away, satisfied. This 616 is not one who refuses to kill.

-.-.-

Peter doesn't feel. The fog permeates everything. His emotions are muted. 

But he can still hear, can still sense everyone around him.

"616!" He stands to attention, compelled by a feeling he doesn't comprehend.

 _No,_ something whispers. _You don't need to understand._

Callison's voice echoes through the mist. 

"Take them out."

Something flickers through him. Something curiously like defiance. Like doubt. But he has no room for it.

 _You are a weapon._ The same whisper comes through. _You serve HYDRA only. You are 616._

He steps forward, his attention on Deadpool.

"Uh, you okay?" his target asks, concern in his voice and posture.

"Peter, what are you doing?" another voice asks. 616 identifies it as Tony Stark. 513.

"Get back," the third man says. 616 whips toward him, eyes narrowed. 743, Bruce Banner. "He's been activated."

"Well, how do you _de_ activate him?!" Deadpool asks. 616 decides it's time to move and sprints forward. "Oh, shit!"

The blow Deadpool receives to the chest shatters his sternum and several ribs, the fractures exacerbated by the fact that he flies into the concrete wall.

616 snaps both his arms and legs for good measure before turning on the other two men, who have started to back away. He can deal with Deadpool later. 

"Uh, Brucie? Now would be a good time to _get away_ , right?" 513, Stark, asks. 

"Yeah," Banner says, his voice empty. 616 whirls on them, brows lowered and eyes narrowed.

"So let's work on that, shall we?" Stark replies, moving farther back. "Hey, you gonna help anytime soon?"

"Give me a sec," Deadpool wriggles his arms. The broken bones grind against each other with a sickening sound and beneath the half-mask, 616 grimaces. "Ah, there we go!"

He stands easily, picking up his gun and sliding it into its holster smoothly. Slipping into a defensive stance, he beckons at 616 with his hand. "C'mon, Spidey, you know you want to."

616 looks at Stark and Banner, who are ready to run. He looks back at Deadpool. 

Within a split second, he makes his choice.

"Uh oh," Stark says, scrambling away as 616 heads for him. "Bruce, I wouldn't do that."

Banner is in the midst of trying to get away. 616 twists around, grabs a knife off Deadpool, and throws it. 

The blade pierces through Banner's sleeve, pinning him to the wall. Around the knife, the concrete cracks.

"Well, _thank god_ I get good blades, right?" Deadpool drawls. The tingle starts at 616's skull and he moves just before there's an attempt to put him in a headlock.

"Nice going, now he's going to kill us," Stark says sarcastically. Banner shifts, getting ready to pull the knife out. 

"He was already going to do that, now shut it," Deadpool commands. 

"No, I'm about to die and I refuse to let it happen," Stark retorts. His features, although angry, are still pinched slightly by fear. 

_Good._

"Jesus, just zip it already."

616 moves decisively. Grabbing the knife from Banner's sleeve, he aims it, and throws it directly into Deadpool's chest.

It grinds in with a wet noise and a shriek of bone, and Deadpool makes a choked noise. "Goddamn, you pierced my lung."

"Probably your heart too, by the sound of it," Banner says factually. He adjusts his sleeve.

Deadpool pulls the knife from his chest. Blood drips down, and a puddle forms at his feet. 616 stares at him. Calculating.

_Disappointing._

"You have to knock him out," Banner tells them, looking concerned. "Do you know people who can deactivate him?"

"Yeah, but getting him back is gonna be a bitch," Deadpool replies.

616 launches himself toward Deadpool. Whipping himself around the other man, he leaps up, putting him into a tight grip. Bracing his forearm against the other's neck, he cuts off the supply of air. 

"Jesus...Christ." Deadpool chokes out, and then he slams himself back, into the floor. 616's head cracks against the concrete, and for a moment, he's dazed.

_Get up. Move. You're weak right now._

The voice screams inside his head, but 616 feels a hand braced against his forehead, and then his head meets the concrete again.

He blacks out.

-.-.-

He wakes up in a chair. His arms and legs are pinned, and there's a cold, smooth sensation against the back of his neck. The half-mask is absent from his face.

He blinks open his eyes.

"He's awake," a low voice says. 616 twists to look at the source. He frowns slightly. Deadpool. He's supposed to be dead.

_You failed._

"Peter?" Stark asks. 616 twitches. 

"He doesn't know his name," Banner says quietly. 

"Well, he's going to be locked down tighter than a dick in a monastery," Deadpool replies matter-of-factly. "I vote that we call in Cap."

"It's been two hours," Stark counters. "And he just woke up. No need to call in the cavalry."

616 watches them, not saying a word.

_Kill them all. Escape. Finish the mission._

"Peter? Peter, you alright?" Stark looks concerned. 616 flinches at the name. That's not his name. He doesn't have a name.

"So he _does_ have a name," Deadpool says cheerfully. "Peter, huh? Pete. Petey-pie. Peter-Peter-Pumpkin-Eater."

616 flinches again.

_Snap his neck._

"616?" Banner asks tentatively. 616 peers at him. 

"Huh," Deadpool coughs. "He looks like an owl, that's kind of creepy. I'm gonna grab Cap, hold on."

He prances out of sight. 616 hears a door open and close. 

"So, what are we gonna do now?" Stark sighs. "Bruce, any ideas?"

"I thought they ended the super soldier program after the fiasco with James Barnes," Banner is muttering. "Psychological manipulation, maybe? Implanting certain code words in a certain order, so that the subject would be compliant. Obviously random words, in a specific order, so that the subject wouldn't be randomly activated."

"You wanna speak English, buddy?" Stark inquires. 616 flexes his wrists against his restraints. They're merely steel. Enough strength and he can snap them. His wrists might break, but he heals quickly enough for that to not be an issue.

"He's been giving psychological alterations," Banner answers distractedly. "Ones similar to the Winter Soldier."

"Oh," Stark says, lackluster. "How do we fix them?"

"I don't know. They're supposed to be infallible, but theoretically, the effects can be broken."

616 tenses his wrists.

"So what? We shoot him up with drugs or something? Hypnosis?"

"No."

"Maybe something familiar."

" _We_ are familiar, Tony," Banner counters. "Obviously, we're not enough. He needs something that will connect him to his former self."

"I dunno," Stark admits. "I'm out of ideas."

"Perhaps an image? A word?"

Stark rubs at his chin. Something creaks behind 616 and he attempts to twist. Only the flare of pain in his wrists stops him from snapping both of them.

_Pain is inconsequential. Do it. Break your wrists. Escape. Kill them all. It wouldn't take more than a snap of their necks._

"Deadpool, you have brought three HYDRA agents back into this facility. So help me-" someone is lecturing. There's a loud sigh and Deadpool replies. 

"Chill, Capt'n Crunch, they're fine. And no one says 'so help me' anymore. Get a new saying."

"Who's the hot blond?" Stark pipes up, apparently unconcerned by the threat in the first man's voice.

"That doesn't matter," Deadpool answers dismissively. "What matters is that we're going to get this hot piece of ass here back."

Stark gapes. Banner hides a grin behind a hand and a cough. And the final man in the room walks forward, a scowl on his face.

_Steven Grant Rogers, Captain America._

The voice in 616's head goes on to list other pieces of information about Rogers, but 616 elects to simply observe.

"He's obviously activated," Rogers states, rather obviously.

"Thanks, Captain Obvious," Deadpool mutters. "Anything you wanna add, Yellow?"

"He needs something familiar, to remind him of who he is," Rogers continues, ignoring Deadpool's murmuring. "An image? A person? A name?"

"None of those worked," Banner interjects.

Stark ignores all of them in favor of looking at 616. "Peter?"

616 twitches again, his forehead wrinkled in confusion. Stark notices. "Your name is Peter," he insists.

"I. Am. 616," 616 scowls. His hands tense into fists.

"Your name is Peter Parker," Stark says. "You are 25 years old."

"I don't have a name," 616 snarls, vehement.

_Good boy._

A low tendril of something like revulsion moves through the base of 616's gut. He ignores it.

_Say it with me. Your designation is 616. You don't have a name._

"My designation is 616. I am an agent of HYDRA." 616 states all of this clearly, but there's a note of doubt that creeps into his voice. He _is_ 616\. He is an agent of HYDRA. He does not have a name. "I have no name."

"Yes, you do, Peter," Banner puts in.

 _My name is Peter Parker,_ something whispers in 616's head.

"Can I talk to him?" Stark asks. "Alone? Without cuffs?"

"That's a bad idea," Banner says.

"I agree," Rogers nods. "He'll kill you."

"You really want to?" Deadpool asks. 

"Yep," Stark answers Deadpool, ignoring the other two.

"Okay," Deadpool shrugs. He moves forward and holds out a small black square. "Fit it into a cuff on the side and press down."

Stark takes the square and nods.

"We'll be watching," Rogers says, clearly disapproving. The three men file out, leaving Stark and 616 alone. 

Stark sighs and moves, slipping the square into the slot, which looks like a fingerprint reader. There's a small beep and 616's cuffs click and slide apart. 

616 rubs at his wrists. Stark sighs and sits cross-legged on the floor. 

"You were first assigned to me when you were fifteen," he says, smiling softly. "I remember what you looked like, all big-eyed. And you were so short, too, barely above here."

Stark holds up a hand to indicate the height. 616, in spite of himself, finds himself enthralled in what Stark has to say. A curious spark of curiosity lights in his chest.

_Kill him. You don't need to listen to this._

616 ignores the voice and watches Stark.

"And I remember thinking, ' _This is the new engineer? He's just a kid._ ' And you were, because 15 isn't even close to being an adult."

He chuckles and continues. "After the guard who brought you left, you said hi and then stared at me for half an hour. It got really uncomfortable, until finally, I said—"

 _Got something you wanna say, Underoos?_ A memory, soft and worn, comes up in 616's head. A younger Stark, a less worn one, swims to the forefront of his mind. 

_He's looking at the famous Engineer 513, Tony Stark._

_"What?" he asks._

_"I said, something you wanna say, Underoos?" the Engineer, Mr. Stark, smirks. "You're kind of staring."_

_"Oh! Oh, sorry! It's just...what are you working on?"_

_"A weapon. Works to convert light into energy that can be shot."_

_"Ah."_

"And then you asked me if I was using the right metals," Stark is saying. "You talked so long about how to keep them from melting using the right alloys, and I was just in shock. Like this fifteen year old was asking me those kind of questions."

_"You sure you're fifteen, kid?" Mr. Stark asks. "You look twelve."_

_"I am!" he protests._

_"If you insist," the other says cryptically. "What metal do you think would work here?"_

_"Maybe a titanium, adamantium alloy? Enough to keep it from melting?"_

_"No, that wouldn't work," Mr. Stark says._

"You just kept looking at me with those big eyes, and I knew that you were gonna be trouble," Stark laughs. "And you were, Peter, you really were. The very next day you knocked over an entire table and broke two tablets. I just about kicked you out."

_"I'm really sorry, Mr. Stark," he says, biting his lip, his eyes cast down. Mr. Stark sighs._

_"Come on, help me pick up."_

"But you looked so sorry that I couldn't stay mad at you. So we picked up, and I asked you about what you were supposed to design. And you told me all about your experimental armor."

Stark breathes in and out. 

"And you looked so happy when you were talking about it, so excited. And I knew that you were gonna be the death of me. And strangely enough, I was fine with that."

_"You made titanium alloys, right?" Mr. Stark asks._

_"Yes, Mr. Stark," he replies._

_"Good boy," the other ruffles his hair. "What did I tell you about calling me Mr. Stark?"_

_"To call you Tony," he sighs._

616 stares at the concrete floor, at the fine cracks webbing across it. 

Is his name really Peter?

 _For the last time,_ the voice in his head snarls, _you don't have a name. You don't deserve a name. Your designation is 616. All you serve is HYDRA. Nothing more and nothing less._

 _No_ , the other voice disagrees. _I am Peter Parker._

_You are 616!_

_My name is Peter Parker!_

The two voices war in his head, until 616 slumps in his chair and whispers, "Who am I?"

_616._

_Peter Parker._

"Peter Parker," Stark agrees with the latter voice.

In an instant, 616 moves and has Stark pinned against the wall by a hand on his throat. He punches the other numbly, watches the red run down his chin from the impact of his other fist on his lip. 

616's hand trembles against Stark's throat. 

And he looks into the other's eyes.

_My name is Peter Parker._

His eyes are a warm honey brown, filled with life and worry and exhaustion. They're devastatingly familiar.

Peter drops the hand from Tony's throat. He slumps to the ground, his head in his hands.

He registers a low "Jesus Christ" before he loses consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decimator - All Good Things


	8. To Belong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unrelenting fluff and maybe some planning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is gonna be fluff because I need like it ~~and because subplot~~.
> 
> [I made a playlist.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLD2zvHl9RrxynxYhNVTnA35CY6qWfCCxE&app=desktop&persist_app=1) It's on YouTube, so sorry if you're on mobile. The majority of these songs are EDM/dubstep, with a few other songs from other genres. I recommend you give it a listen, since a lot of the songs set the tone for the fic (especially the ones by the Glitch Mob and Decimator by All Good Things, which I based the previous chapter off of).
> 
> Hope you enjoy, and please drop me a comment.

Peter wakes up on a couch, his head pounding. A pillow rests beneath his head and it spins off the couch when he jerks up.

"Hey, Sam, Sleeping Beauty is awake!" an unfamiliar masculine voice says, slightly muffled. Peter focuses his eyes enough to see a brunet man across from him, eyes open and curious. They're a warm shade of hazel, bright. Peter realizes his voice is muffled because of the yogurt being shoved at a rapid rate into an open mouth.

The scent of strawberry and sugar drifts over and he wrinkles his nose.

"Is he now?" a sarcastic voice comes in, this time belonging to a black man with intelligent eyes. Sam, as Peter guesses his name is, sits down next to Hazel Eyes, who immediately drops his legs on Sam's lap. The glass and wood table between them rattles with the movement.

"You're Peter, right?" Hazel Eyes asks. Peter nods. "I'm Scott. Nice to meet you. This is Sam."

"You can call him Dumbass," Sam interjects, stealing Scott's yogurt and spoon.

"Hey!" Scott protests as Sam scoops yogurt in his mouth. Peter feels fabric against his skin and notes that he's wearing a short-sleeved shirt and a pair of sweatpants. The shirt is blue, with a decoration of a cat and an oddly shaped bubble with text in the middle. _I'm Pawfect_ it reads.

"You've eaten half the carton and this is _my_ yogurt," Sam retorts, lifting the spoon. He smacks Scott gently across the nose with it, smearing pink across the other's nose. Scott grumbles and wipes it off, licking it off his fingers.

"So, Peter, you ever seen _Back to the Future_?" Sam asks calmly, ignoring the muttering of the man next to him. Peter shakes his head, fascinated by their dynamic.

"Scott, did you hear that?!" Sam pokes Scott's ribs with a long finger. "The man has never seen Back to the Future! It is our responsibility as older folk to educate this young man! Come on, up and at 'em!"

Peter watches them, oddly captivated, as Scott gets up (stealing his yogurt back), and taking Sam's outstretched hand. The latter presses an easy kiss to Scott's cheek as thanks, taking the yogurt and spoon. _Oh,_ Peter thinks numbly. _So they're like that. I didn't know men could be like that._

"Tic-Tac, I'm entrusting you with the enormous duty of finding the movie and putting it on. Can I trust you?" Sam asks seriously, shifting the yogurt and spoon to one hand. He grasps Scott's hand with his other hand.

Scott gets down on one knee, still holding Sam's hand. He presses his hand to his chest, his expression one of somber intent. "Of course, sire. Your wish is my command."

He kissed Sam's hand. Gravely, he looked at Peter. "Can I trust you to help me with this great task, Sir Peter?"

Catching on (thank god, that would have been embarrassing) and brushing aside his shock, Peter nods, sobering his face and emptying his eyes of all emotion (HYDRA is good for something, at least). "Of course, Lord Scott."

They hold eye contact for a full thirty seconds before they burst into laughter. Sam holds out for about fifteen more before he's chuckling too.

"You're calling me Lord now," Scott informs Sam between bouts of giggling.

"I thought you wanted me to call you something else," Sam says, quirking an eyebrow. "We discussed it extensively."

"And we agreed that it would never happen and would remind us of Cassie, which is not conducive to fun times," Scott answers, moving over to a wood shelf against the plain, pale blue wall. What looks like thin books fill the space. Peter walks over, looking at the titles. Sam leaves.

A flash of memory. Peter remembers holding Tony to the wall by his throat, punching him in the lip. 

He decides to just not think about it for a while, and he lets himself get distracted by the books. Sam and Scott seem alright, and he thinks he can relax around them.

He exhales and tension he didn't know he had flows from his body. Lifting a hand, he brushes his fingertips across the titles.

The one called _Legally Blonde_ catches his eye. He pulls it from the shelf and peered past the plastic wrapping. The smiling face of a cheerful, oddly dressed blonde was put in stark contrast with the white title. A small, beady eyed dog was in her arms. He turns it over, reading what looks like a description.

"Oh, _Legally Blonde_!" Scott exclaims. "I love that movie!"

"Scott, you are the patron saint of straight white girls everywhere," Sam says, carrying a bowl. Something buttery wafted from it, carrying hints of salt. "And I made popcorn."

"It's a classic, shut up," Scott retorts.

"Well, where is the movie?" Sam gestures around at the TV on the wall and frowns at him. He sits down on one of the couches, setting the

"Here." Scott retrieves one of the weird books and pops it open. He pulls out a thin disk and moves to a machine on a shelf below the TV. Peter watches, fascinated, as Scott presses a button and another shelf slides out.

_This is so fucking weird,_ Peter thinks as the other slips the disk on the shelf, presses the button again, and grabs a remote, turning on the TV.

"What was that?" Peter asks, grabbing the book and peering at it. BACK TO THE FUTURE it declares.

"You really don't know what a DVD is?" Scott asks.

"No," Peter replies. He opens up what he supposes is actually a case. Three triangles sit in the middle of a circular indent. Tracing the edges of the indent, he turns back to the TV.

A menu has popped up.

Scott, without any great care or delicacy, flops down on Sam backwards, nearly sending the bowl of popcorn flying. Fortunately, Sam holds out his bowl-filled hand and sets the dish on the table, saving his snack. Scott ends up half on him, his head on Sam's shoulder, comfortably nestled in the cushions.

Peter sits down on the other couch, rolling his eyes as they bicker quietly.

Scott lifts a remote and selects PLAY MOVIE before dropping his hand (carefully and well placed) right into Sam's unsuspecting stomach. His victim hunches over with a groan.

" _Dammit, Scott!_ "

Peter snickers quietly.

-.-.-

It turns out that Sam and Scott have a way of making people gravitate to them. Twenty minutes into the movie, a blond Peter recognizes as Clint wanders in.

"This again?" he groans. "We watched this last Wednesday!"

"We weren't here!" Scott protests. Peter, curled up on the farthest side of the couch from the TV, tears his attention away from the movie to watch what may turn out to be an excellent show.

Clint grumbles and grabs the pillow Peter had flung off the couch, sitting on it. He leans back against the couch and Sam's arm. Peter, realizing that was the extent of the entertainment, moves his attention back to the movie.

"Can we watch  _Mean Girls_ after this?" Scott asks sleepily, his face firmly stuck in Sam's armpit. Peter looks over at him just in time to catch Sam's expression as he peers down at the man on him. It's something Peter has only seen in  _The Princess Bride_ , something soft and tender and warm and a little bit disbelieving, like Sam can't believe his luck.

It makes Peter's chest ache, and somehow he can't bear it, like he's watching something deeply intimate.

He moves his gaze to Clint, who's blatantly staring at him.

"What the fuck do you want?" bursts out of Peter's mouth, laced with venom and edged with steel.

Unexpectedly, Clint starts laughing.

"H-holy shit," he gasps out, eyes streaming. "You're just like Bucky when he first came in."

Sam starts chuckling too. "Remember when he tried to stab me because I took the last of the coffee?"

"That was some funny shit," Scott mumbles from his position. "Sam screamed like a baby."

"I did not!" Sam protests while Peter hides a grin behind his hand. 

"Sam." Clint says seriously. "I had never before, nor have I since, heard a man's voice reach that pitch."

"I'm not the one who shrieked because there was a spider in the vents."

"It was the size of a half-dollar, you would have too!"

Peter starts laughing at their antics. Doubling over, tears streaming down his face, he laughs his ass off. 

"Holy shit, I think we broke him," Clint whispers theatrically after three minutes of Peter's hysterical chortles.

"Who'd you break?" a familiar voice asks as two sets of feet walk into the room. Peter sobers, slowly but surely, enough to look up at Steve Rogers and a strange brunet with striking grey-blue eyes that radiate intensity like a force field. Peter notices a glint of silver at his side.

"Sam," the brunet says seriously, "I told you, you're not supposed to break him before the end. Look, we have twenty minutes left."

He points with his left arm at the screen, and Peter gasps without meaning to when he sees that it's silver, painted with a red star. But someone decorated the star to include rays of blue edged with gold at the ends, like a planet in odd colors.

The Winter Soldier.

Peter thinks he might die of shock. 

But it's oddly not as dramatic an introduction as he would have expected. Dressed in a t-shirt with a picture of a white, oddly geometric android, and the text  _Little Light_ , along with a pair of blue sweatpants, he's less than frightening.

Kind of sweet-looking in a vaguely threatening way, like he'd cuddle but stab you during it.

"Why's the kid staring at me?" the Soldier snaps, glaring at Peter.

"I'm 25," Peter snaps back just as quickly, narrowing his gaze.

"That sounds like bullshit to me, chief," Clint cuts in. "You're short."

"I'm five foot ten," Peter tells him, annoyed. "We're the same height."

"Nah, I'm taller." 

"Can we  _please_ watch  _Mean Girls_?" Scott begs from the couch. Sam sighs.

"Fine."

"Do we not get a say?" Rogers inquires, cocking an eyebrow.

"No," Scott says.

"Ugh." Clint flops over on his back, oddly arched due to the pillow. "I should have stayed in Missouri."

"Oh, you want to be a farmer?" Sam asks. He drops the popcorn bowl on Clint's unsuspecting stomach, the unpopped kernels rattling. He points out the window. "Here's two acres."

His victim makes a startled noise like a hawk cut off mid-cry and curls up around the bowl in an odd fetal position.

"Jesus Christ, Sam," Scott says, chuckling. The Soldier smirks as Clint sets the bowl back on the table. Clint holds out his hand, the middle finger pointed straight up.

"Ironic," Sam says. "You're flipping  _me_ the bird."

 "Sam, can you do me a favor?" the Soldier--no, Peter decides to call him Barnes, he's not the Soldier anymore-- asks. 

"What?"

"Drop dead."

"I don't do requests," Sam says, deadpan. Clint groans and stands up. Peter looks over at the TV, seeing the credits roll. 

"It's over," he announces. Clint groans again.

"Bucky, can you  _pleaaase_ put in  _Mean Girls_?"

"No," Barnes says.

"Ugh." Clint stands up, moving over to the shelf and grabbing a DVD. He moves to a machine by the TV. Popping open the case, he presses a button on the machine and the shelf slides out.

"I sensed  _Mean Girls_ and came as quickly as I could," yet another person says. Deadpool.

"Ha! He likes the movie!" Scott holds an arm up, fist curled, and Deadpool bounds over to press his own fist onto Scott's.

"You two are stereotypical teenage girls," Barnes says, comfortably setting himself atop Sam and Scott's tangled legs. He ignored the curses aimed at him. "We don't have enough seating."

"Just move the coffee table," Rogers says. No one moves to do so.

For a moment, all is quiet. Then Rogers sighs loudly and moves the table out of the way. After a moment of what looks like consideration, he goes over to Peter's and drags it so it's parallel instead of perpendicular to the TV.

Peter  _does not_ shriek like a startled rabbit. He doesn't.

Deadpool snickers and plants himself on the other side of the couch.

Rogers eyes his handiwork for a moment before giving Sam, Scott, and Barnes the same treatment, although all three make manlier noises of surprise than Peter.

"There," Rogers says, brushing his hands off. "All done."

"I'm gonna grab Nat," Barnes says, getting off the couch. Twin sighs of relief follow him. He walks out of the room just as Clint turns around with a disk in his hand.

"Where's Tony and Bruce?" Peter asks Deadpool quietly, leaning forward, thinking that he would be the most likely to answer.

"They're in cells until we determine allegiance," Rogers pipes up from where he's standing. "It's for safety."

Super soldier hearing. Peter forgot.

"Why am I not in a cell?" he asks.

"You stole from HYDRA, which means you don't wanna work for them. But we don't know if you're with us or not, so you're on probation until we know we can trust you," Deadpool explains concisely. 

"Oh," Peter says. 

"Don't worry about it, Petey," Deadpool says, moving over and putting Peter into a friendly headlock, rubbing at his hair with his knuckles. Ignoring the grumbles and half-hearted attempts to escape, he sings, "you've got a friend in me!"

"Jesus Christ," Sam says at the same time that Scott yells, "You've got a friend in me!"

"Scott, no--" Clint starts.

Deadpool smirks beneath his mask, releases Peter, stretches his arms (with a chorus of pops), and continues where Scott left off.

"When the road looks rough ahead, and you're miles and miles from your nice warm bed!"

"You remember what your old pal said, boy, you've got a friend in me! Yeah, you've got a friend in me," Scott sings. 

"Scott, if you don't stop right now--" Sam says.

"Alright. The movie's in," Clint interjects, effectively ending the song and Sam's protests. 

"Ooh, Petey, this is a classic," Deadpool says, turning Peter into his captive to silent protest. Peter catches Rogers' eye.

_Help me,_ he mouths. Something like a smirk crosses the other's face, and Rogers shakes his head.

Peter glares as Rogers shifts Sam and Scott's legs, sitting down in the now vacated space. Clint snatches up his floor pillow and sits in his former place, grabbing the remote from Scott and turning on the movie just as Barnes reappears with a slim redhead. 

Natasha Romanov. Peter cranes his neck uncomfortably to get a good look at her. Like Barnes, she appears almost non-threatening, in a tank top and sweatpants. 

How ironic, considering the file Peter was given on her was nearly an inch thick, even with all the info left out.

She raises a brow at him, and he looks away to the TV.

Peter watches the redheaded girl onscreen nearly get run over by a bright yellow bus. "Dumbass."

Deadpool laughs under his breath as Barnes plops down on Rogers' lap.

" _Mean Girls_ , Scott?" Romanov says. "Really?"

"How'd you know it was me?" Scott asks.

"No one else wants to watch early-2000s chick flicks," Romanov answers.

"Told you that you were a typical white girl," Sam says teasingly.

"Your insults won't touch me, Sam."

"Oh, I suppose nothing hurts you."

"Only pain."

-.-.-

Deadpool passes out around halfway through and Peter is entrapped by muscular arms. He suffers through the rumbling and snoring with relatively little protest, mostly because the other gripped him with enough force that it would be a struggle. 

At least he's toasty.

Sighing, Peter arranges his body so the handle of the other's knife doesn't stab his very unwilling ass. His attempt fails. Deadpool's snoring ceases (thank God).

"This fucking knife handle," he grumbles, reaching back to try and fix the issue manually.

"I wouldn't attempt that," Deadpool says, his voice deep and rough. "That's not a handle."

Peter stares forward determinedly, snatching his hand back. His face ignites just as he catches Clint's gaze.

Deadpool starts laughing loudly at the same time Clint does.

"Oh my God," he says as the blond rolls around on the floor. "I was just kidding."

"Fuck you," Peter snaps.

"Language," Rogers corrects from the other couch, fingers firmly buried in Barnes' long hair. Peter glares at him.

Thankfully, Deadpool releases him enough to arrange the knife. Peter doesn't attempt to escape mostly because he's warm and doesn't know where he'd sit once he'd left.

He pillows his head on his arm. Deadpool doesn't octopus his way around him again, just curls an arm around his waist. The weight is oddly comforting, as is the smell of gunpowder and something spicy that surrounds him in a warm haze.

Despite himself, Peter's eyes slip shut, and he exhales, soft and quiet. Deadpool's hand slips into his hair, and he's asleep.

-.-.-

He dreams in movements, in stages, a smooth sonata that encapsulates everything. And then he's back in the workshop with Tony, taking apart a gun. 

_"You can't use tin, it's too weak, like aluminum," Tony says, showing him the melted inside of the barrel._

_"_ _I'm sorry," Peter says, because he is. He's an Engineer, and this is only the first month. He should be doing better. He turns around to test the steel he has, and he comes face to face with Callison._

_"616!" she barks. "Are you ready to comply?"_

_"What?" he asks, and Tony sets down the gun behind him. He joins Callison at her side. His brown eyes bore into Peter's._

_"Are you ready to comply?" she asks again._

_"No, I don't work for you anymore," he tells her, firmly. "I'm not a part of HYDRA anymore. You aren't my superior."_

_Bruce appears at her other side, staring at Peter._

_"I made you," he whispers._

_"Are you ready to comply?" Callison demands._

_"No!" Peter yells. All three glare. Callison opens her mouth._

_"616!"_

_"No!"_

_"страстное желание!"_

_"No!" he insists, but his back straightens._

_"ржавые! Семнадцать! рассвет!"_

_"You don't give me orders anymore!" His voice is weak to his own ears._

_"Плита! Девять! Мягкосердечны!" she hisses maliciously, eyes gleaming._

_Desperately, he lashes out, trying to stop her tongue from moving. He's angry, and scared, and through his fog, he recognizes her laughing. But his fist might as well be made of paper for how heavy it hits._

_"Возвращение домой! Один! Грузовой вагон.”_

_His head goes blank, and he knows nothing at all._

-.-.-

With a gasp, Peter wakes. Blinking open his eyes, he notices that Sam, Scott, and Clint are asleep. Deadpool snores, his face tucked into the couch.

Everyone else is gone.

Gently, he removes the arm from his waist, sitting it up and letting it flop down on the couch.

He slips from the room, heading outside. Something like a plan echoes through his head, and he realizes he doesn't know what to do.

He spins at the crunching of dead leaves behind him.

"Where are you going?" Deadpool asks.

"I need to stop HYDRA," he says.

"We've been trying to do that for years. Think smaller."

Peter sighs. "I need to stop Collin Harpy."

Deadpool grins, sharp and lined against his mask. "Good boy. I'll come with."

Peter grins back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Belong - Mr. Fijiwiji ft. Exist Strategy [I really recommend a listen to this, it's beautifully arranged and kind of stirs emotion.]
> 
> I like to think that if Sam and Scott were a couple, they'd be the sort to prank and mess with each other all the time.
> 
> We met Bucky! If you know what game I was referencing for his shirt, I will give you a digital cookie. If you catch my other references, here's two cookies.
> 
> ...I'm not used to writing so many characters at one time. Can you tell?
> 
> I have half a mind to start writing the OTHER half of the story (i.e. Wade's perspective and everyone else's), but I should really finish this fic first. I'm putting that baby on the back burner, though, until I finish this. I've already got a title and working theme (AV has music, this boi will use rare/very specific words, like erlibnisse [which is German]).

**Author's Note:**

> Geometer- Slidecamp.


End file.
